


All You Sinners Stand Up

by PyromanicSchizophrenic



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brendon tries to help, Future Fic, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, It gets better I promise, It's really sad guys, but her life sucks a lot, i don't know how to tag, oc's really sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 10:49:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 50,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4743515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PyromanicSchizophrenic/pseuds/PyromanicSchizophrenic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, life gets out of hand. Sometimes your family forces your hand. Sometimes, you just have to run.</p><p>Hailey had to run. And so she did. And then she met the lead singer of one of her favorite bands. And he isn't planning on letting her run anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reinventing the Wheel to Run Myself Over

_Just apologize. Come home. He’ll forgive you if you apologize._

No he won’t. Of course he won’t. Why would he? I did _It_ —the big _It_ , the one with a capital and italics, the one that he was more afraid of than anything, the one we were all afraid of more than anything. Except, apparently, me. I must have been more afraid of something, something worse than _It,_ because I’m the one that’s done it. It wasn’t her, it wasn’t some stranger, it was me. And I know, if I turn around and go back, I’m never walking out of that house again.

I look down as my phone _ping_ s again. _Hailey, please_.

I can’t take it. I can’t take my mom’s incessant begging for me to come home. She doesn’t know it was me, she doesn’t know what I’ve done. He doesn’t either, I suppose. It was all anonymous, wasn’t it? No, she thinks that if I apologize for snapping at him, for “talking back,” as he keeps putting it, that he’ll forgive me. He’ll forgive my words. But my actions…

The actions he can’t ever, not for a second, know about. At least, not until after I have a house of my own, and I get all my possessions back. Then I’ll tell him, from my undisclosed location. But I won’t apologize.

My phone _ping_ s one more time. I’d throw it if I wasn’t desperate for it to charge. I could get on Tumblr, on Twitter. I could watch YouTube videos, or listen to music. For just a fleeting moment, this hell I’d gotten myself into could be ignored.

But it’s not my mom texting me this time. It’s my brother.

_Don’t listen to them don’t apologize you said what needed to be said you were right don’t listen to her you did the right thing_

The good brother. The one not responsible for all this. The one that agrees with me, the one that feels just as unsafe with him there as I do. And he’s right. He’s absolutely, one hundred percent, right. I’m right. I’m not sorry, and I don’t need to feel guilty. I did the right thing.

I look down at my bus ticket and consider it. Graham knows I’m right. Graham is my ally in this. But the real question is: would that still be true if he knew exactly what it is I’ve done?

Another _ping_.

_It was you wasn’t it_

My breath catches. _Lie_ , I tell myself. _Lie. Feign ignorance. Something. Anything._

I can’t lose him. My one ally in this newly declared war. The one person fighting beside me, the only one who agrees with me.

_It’s okay, if you did._ I stare at the new text, unsure of how to respond. Graham’s using punctuation. He never does that, not unless he’s serious. He must be serious. _I was about to do it myself._

Oh. I wasn’t expecting that.

_How is he?_

I almost shut my phone off. I hadn’t thought before sending it. And now that I had, I didn’t want to see the answer. I was afraid.

_Dustin’s pissed. Don’t think Tristan actually knows what’s happening._

Good. Don’t tell him. He’s only three, he’d be terrified if he found out.

I look up. The bus is boarding. I stand and move to where my bag’s sitting, holding my place in the line.

It’s not running away, I tell myself. You’re not a runaway, because you’re twenty-one. It’s not running away, it’s moving out.

As I walk outside and climb onto the bus, I start to wonder if I’ll ever believe it.

_Chicago._ It’s the farthest they had available, but it’s not far enough. I’ll stay a couple days, then I need to move again. Maybe California. That’d be good.

* * *

 

It’s kind of sad, I realize, clambering off the final bus. It was interrupted, and on a bus, but that was unarguably the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a ridiculously long time. Although “night’s” sleep is probably the wrong word for it—I slept over twenty-four hours on that bus. But that makes sense, since I’ve been sleeping in hidden corners of Walmarts and Kmarts and Targets and whatever other stores I can find, during the day, walking and moving at night, when it’s slightly cooler. I’ve spent the week with a shitty sleep schedule and even shittier sleeping places.

I look around the station. Chicago. I’ve never been here before, truth be told. I’m a little scared, and that’s not even counting all the fear for my family, fear of my family. I’m so scared of everything and it’s all hitting me now, the fear that’s been hiding dormant this past week, the fear that almost surfaced back in Raleigh. The fear that Dustin will find out, the fear that _Tristan_ will figure out what’s going on, one day, even if it’s years in the future, because he’ll figure out soon that his life’s been ruined, and if he ever finds out that it was me he’ll resent me, and I can’t have that. I can’t have him resent me, and I sure as hell can’t have him forget me, but I suppose I’ll have to pick one. I stop, take a deep breath, and start walking again. I need to keep it together, at least until I find someplace to stay.

And I almost make it. I do. But as I’m walking down the street, panic filling me up because I have no clue where I am, and I have no clue where I’m going, and all of a sudden there’s an adorable little kid standing in front of me. A little kid, that’s literally Tristan’s age. And he looks nothing like Tristan, really, he doesn’t, but _god_ I miss Tristan and I’m looking at this three-year-old and that’s it.

I don’t know how I manage to hide my panic, but it must have something to do with the tear tracks running down this kid’s cheeks. I kneel down so I’m eye-level and ask, in a far more level voice than I thought myself capable of maintaining, “What’s wrong, lil dude?”

He sniffles, and tells me, in this heartbreakingly pathetic voice, “I lost my mommy.”

Shit, I’m not prepared for this. _I’m_ lost. I _am_ this little kid, lost in the streets of Chicago with no clue what the fuck I’m doing next, or where I’m going next, and now I’m expected to _help_ this boy with blonde hair and bright blue eyes, and frankly he looks a bit familiar somehow, which is ridiculous.

“Alright, well…What does your mommy look like?” I ask him, with no actual physical hesitation at all. I’m impressed with myself.

“She’s pretty,” the boy tells me. “Like you.”

And oh, boy. That was unhelpful, and also extremely flattering, and even more extremely _wrong_. I’m not pretty. I looked in the mirror at the bus station. I’ve got the pinched look of someone who lost too much weight too quickly, of someone who’s starving, and my hair is choppy from cutting it with the skinning knife in my bag. My clothes are too baggy and my skin is an unflattering combination of extremely suntan and red from sunburn and just flat out heat.

“Do you remember where you were going?” Again, no physical hesitation. I am a truly phenomenal actor. Maybe I could go to Hollywood, audition for something there. That’d be cool.

“We were go-going to the—the record store,” the boy tells me, stammering through his tears. “To get a surprise for daddy.”

Well, that’s just great, because I have absolutely no clue where the fuck that is. Or where the fuck I am, for that matter. But hey, I’ve got a cell phone, and that’s got a map feature, so I can use that and find out where to go from here.

“We’ll find her, okay?” I assure him, even though I have absolutely no way of knowing that. I do, however, know what it’s like to lose your kid (even though Tristan’s not mine ~~and it’s my fault I’m losing him in the first place~~ ).

He sniffles again and nods. I stand and take his hand, trying not to think about Tristan until I’ve found this kid’s mother and I find somewhere to hide out for the night.

I pull out my phone and start searching for record stores near my GPS location (which I was terrified to turn on ~~because they can find me I’ll have to leave soon really soon~~. There’s one a couple blocks away, and I’m reasonably sure that’s where he and his mom were going.

“So what’s your name?” I ask, gently as possible.

“Declan,” he mumbles, looking around anxiously. He’s probably searching for his mother, sifting through the crowds to find that one familiar face.

I nod, part of me wanting to help him look, but the logical part of me knowing that it won’t mean anything because I don’t know what to look for. I get an idea.

“Hey,” I say, kneeling back down. “Betcha you could see better if you were sitting on my shoulders.” His face lights up and he nods, and it was a good idea. I stand up, then lift him so that he’s situated comfortably, grabbing his ankles as he grabs my hair. Obviously, he’s done this before.

The walk to the record store is short, and as soon as I walk through the doors I realize that I really wish I had a home, and my record player, and more money, because I want to buy pretty much all of these.

“Mommy!” Declan shouts from on top of my shoulders, and an anxious looking woman turns around to face us. Her expression floods with relief, and I’m glad we found her, because I’m losing Tristan by choice and with warning, but she lost Declan with neither of those things, so if I’m scared, she must have been absolutely petrified.

“Declan,” she exclaims, crossing the store quickly and helping him down from his perch and holding him tight. I think about making some pathetic excuse, but realize I could probably just back away and she wouldn’t notice until I was gone. I make it two steps before she looks up at me with a broad grin. “Thank you so much,” she says sincerely.

“It was…It was no problem,” I assure her, even though it kind of was, because my throat’s been slowly closing up this whole time, and now it’s so tight it’s constricting. It’s a wonder I even got the words out.

“No, please,” she insists, seeing straight through the lie. “Please, let me make it up to you.” She held out a hand. “I’m Elisa.”

Elisa. Declan. Chicago. Record store. Oh. _Oh._

If someone had told me that I would ~~run away~~ move out, go to Chicago, and help Patrick Stump’s son find Patrick Stump’s wife a week ago, I’d have laughed in their face and asked to read the story when they finished writing it.

“It…Seriously, it wasn’t…That’s not…” I’m tripping over words, and now it seems my voice has finally caught on to the fact that _I can’t breathe throat too tight can’t breathe can’t breathe_. “Thanks but…”

“ _Please_ ,” Elisa says again. She’s so insistent, so _sincere_ , so fucking _genuine_ , and she doesn’t know me, doesn’t know what I’ve done. “I can’t even begin to explain how grateful I am to you. You found my son, that’s not something I can just let go.” Her eyes are wide and earnest. Declan rushes to hug my legs, looking up at me with his wide blue eyes ( _Patrick Stump’s eyes_ , I remind myself). “He seems to like you,” Elisa continues. “You must be great with kids.”

And that’s it. That clinches it. This is Patrick Stump’s wife, and she’s going to tell Patrick Stump about this girl she met, this woman who helped their son, and how this woman was a good person, helping Declan without asking for anything in return. And I’m _not_. I’m a monster, I tore apart a family, I tore apart _my_ family, and I’m so terrified that if I stay too long she’ll figure it out, she’ll know, she’ll see it on my face. I’m afraid that what I’ve done is written on my body, my appearance from the last week some obscure language, and if I stay she’ll learn it. And I won’t be the woman who helped their son. I’ll be the bitch who ruined everything, and is just looking for redemption and repentance, using their innocent little boy to get it.

“I…I’m in a hurry, I’ve got to go…” Go do _what_? I just got here, I don’t have job, or a home. I have a Batman bookbag that’s falling apart stuffed with stolen granola bars and Pop-Tarts, a hoodie, and a skinning knife that Graham gave me before I left. “Stuff, you know?”

Elisa sighs, prying Declan off of me and looking at me again, as if she’s seeing me in a whole new light. “Have you put the pieces together yet?” she asks finally, and I stare at her, because I don’t have a clue what she’s talking about. “I know I don’t get recognized often, but my name does. Especially in conjunction with him.” She nods to Declan.

I look down at the ground, scuffing my shoe against the tiled floor.

“Then you know who my husband is,” she continues, taking my silence as the affirmative it is. “More importantly, you know who my husband’s best friend is. That look on your face, I’ve seen it before. And I don’t know what’s going on, what your head is saying to you, but I do know that they’re wrong. The world is not against you, and you most certainly are not a bad person.” She’s silent for a moment. “I’m not asking you to let me help you sort through everything. I’m just asking you to come to dinner.”

I can see now why Patrick loves Elisa so much. She’s so good, she’s exactly what he deserves, exactly what he needs. But I don’t. “I really can’t,” I choke out finally.

“And I really must insist.” It’s not a question anymore. I am going to the Stump household and I am eating dinner with the Stump family, because Elisa Stump is not taking any of my bullshit.

* * *

 

In hindsight, I probably should have stayed in my room if all I planned on doing was moping. Dinner had been wonderful, if not a little awkward, because I felt like I really couldn’t contribute much to conversation. They didn’t even know my name, I was too scared to give it.

Patrick was amazing though, much better than I ever could have imagined. He didn’t ask any questions about what brought me to Chicago, or why my clothes looked like I’d been living in the wild (the answer, of course, being that I had been). He didn’t even ask me for my name, because he seemed to pick up on the fact that I didn’t want to give it.

What was totally unexpected, though, was the way they invited me to stay _after_ dinner. They _insisted_ that I stay, and I felt a bit like I was invading on something personal, something intimate, because this was a family thing. Patrick had been away, and now he was back, and I was invading upon this much needed family time, sitting curled up on their armchair and watching but not seeing _Labyrinth_ (and discovering that yes, Patrick Stump was as obsessed with Bowie as fanfiction made him seem). And then Elisa showed me to the _guest room_ of all things, and was it really that obvious that I was homeless?

(Of course it was; my hair was cut with a knife and my clothes were torn and dirt-stained and I smelled like I hadn’t had a proper shower in a week.)

But now I’d taken a hot shower and I had tried to sleep, I had, but my sleep schedule was so irreparably damaged that there really was nothing I could do for it, so now I’m curled up on the armchair again, chin on my knees trying to think of how exactly I managed to get myself into this mess.

I always thought that, should I find myself meeting any of the members of any of my favorite bands or casts of my favorite TV shows, I would be grateful as all hell for the choices that led me there. And yet, here I am, and I would rather have never met Patrick Stump, or even seen that half-hour Fall Out Boy set at Global Citizen 2015, than get where I am now.

Which is regretting my choice to mope in the living room instead of the guest room, because that lamp clicking on can only mean one thing.

Patrick’s hair is sleep rumpled, and his glasses are just a tiny bit askew, and I have to admit that I like his Batman pajamas and the t-shirt that’s so old I can’t even read the logo on it. And he’s cross-legged on the floor in front of me, just watching me.

“Heard you helped Declan earlier,” he says finally. “Well, yesterday, I guess.” And yeah, yesterday. It’s almost five am, definitely the next day, no matter who you ask. “So, thank you. It’s hard to find strangers in Chicago that’ll do that.”

I shrug. “Guess I’m just new to town,” I mumble, not really feeling like having the conversation that I can feel bubbling its way up.

“What’s your name?” There it is, the question I’d been waiting for _someone_ to ask.

I can’t say Hailey. Hailey is a monster. Hailey ran away from home because she was afraid. Afraid of her older brother, afraid of the welts on her arms that came from scratching for minutes, even hours on end. The scars on her hips and the tops of her feet, scars that came into being because scratching wasn’t enough, and she had a box cutter, something thin and razor sharp that she didn’t have before. Hailey is afraid, no, _terrified_ , for Tristan, so she called the Department of Social Services, made them see that neither of his parents deserved to have that poor child in his care. Hailey put her nephew, the boy _she_ raised, more than either of his parents, in the system. She’s the reason he’s going to grow up, bouncing from home to home ( ~~he’ll probably be adopted but I always see the worst outcome~~ ). Hailey ran away from home, slept in woods and corporate stores and stole food from them. Hailey is starving and Hailey is dead inside. I can’t say Hailey, I can’t _be_ Hailey.

“Kairi,” I say finally, thinking about _Kingdom Hearts_ , and Sora’s friend. One of the game’s Princesses of Heart, she showed up on Destiny Island with no story whatsoever. I have a story, but nobody is ever going to hear it. I choose the name because maybe I can be as important to someone in real life as the Kairi in the game is to Sora.

But probably not, because this Kairi isn’t that Kairi. This Kairi is alone, and lost, and scared. I can change my name, but I can’t change the fact that I’m still starving. I’m still dead inside.

Patrick gives me a sad smile, like he can see the war in my head. “Nice to meet you, Kairi.”

 


	2. When the Moon Found the Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this gets really dark...

Two months. I’ve given myself two months to forgive myself for fucking it up again. Two and a half, total, since my whole world crashed around me, since I fucked everything up in the first place. I’ve gained myself two additional allies in this war against my family—most of my family, since Graham sides with me. Graham, Adrian, and Kaycee. Three allies, three friends, three people who said I’m doing the right thing. Mom hasn’t tried calling since I finally stopped running. Dustin hadn’t tried calling since the day I left Chicago.

I do feel bad, like I’ll never _truly_ forgive myself, for running out on Patrick and Elisa, too. They only wanted to help, and I stayed for four days before leaving them too.

It’s not like I actually lied to them, either. They asked if I wanted to go out with them (it was to a movie or something, I’m not quite sure), and I wasn’t lying when I said I wasn’t really feeling good. My stomach was rolling and my head hurt—still in recovery from what was probably a pretty nasty case of hyperthermia.

I have a new bag and new clothes, clothes that fit. Or at least, they did. They will again, when I gain back some of the weight I lost. I look too skinny, I am too skinny, like a starved cat. That’s all I am, these days. A stray that a good family took in, fed and watered for a few days, and then I slunk away with my tail between my legs.

I walked most of this way. I took a bus to cross the mountains, but other than that it was my own two feet that carried me.

The small, black handled skinning knife, the one Graham gave me, the one Mom managed to sneak away from my uncle when my grandfather died, had come in handy. I’ve learned all kinds of important survival skills, simply from necessity. I needed to learn how to survive, and so I did. I’m more of a wild animal now than a person, probably, but I’ve had two weeks to reacquaint myself with civilization. With _humans_.

I made it to LA, and now I’ve sort of just said _fuck it_. I’m in California. That was the goal, this is the farthest from home I can get without a passport. This is where I am, and this is where I’ll stay. I’m still homeless, but I found an abandoned dance studio that doesn’t have a ‘keep out’ sign on it. There’s like, zero electricity but I don’t care, really. There’s a coffee shop across the street, I go over there to charge my phone (and use the computers to check the news from back home; I have no doubts that Dustin _will_ set the house on fire someday ~~soon~~ ).

Today, though, I’m lying on the floor of the dance studio, spread eagle, staring up at the ceiling and wondering if it would hurt if it crashed down on top of me. Would I register the pain? Would it be as much as I deserve?

I blink up at the ceiling as I hear footsteps on the hardwood floor of the hallway outside. People come in all the time, come in to smoke, to drink, to make noise. It’s probably someone looking to do that.

“Oh, sorry,” a voice says, the footsteps having stopped—and apparently just inside my little studio-room. “I didn’t see you there.

“The doors only open one way,” I say wistfully. I haven’t the faintest idea why I’m quoting Crona, only that it’s the first thing that came to my mind. I must have forgotten how to say hello. “They only open inwards.”

“Uhm…” the voice falters, and I can almost hear this guy deciding to leave the crazy girl lying on the floor of the abandoned dance studio, leave and never come back. Tell his friends it’s haunted or something equally ridiculous. “I can see that?”

“The floor is warped,” I mutter, running my hands along the twisted floor. “Warped, twisted, knotted, sad. Bad for dancing. If I dance, I’ll get hurt. I want to. I want to dance. But I can’t. I can’t if I do.” Wow, no. My brain signals are all scrambled and weird. I’m not even sure of what I’m saying, and this guy didn’t ask for any of that. He didn’t ask me what the floors are like, he didn’t ask me about the doors, he only apologized for intruding on my space.

The footsteps resume, but they’re moving closer, like he’s walking _towards_ the crazy person with a Totoro backpack right next to her.

“Are you…okay?” he asks gently, and I can see him from the corner of my eye. He’s crouching down next to me, and he sounds worried. Great. One more person worried for me. I’m the worst kind of person.

“I wanna dance.” I hadn’t realized how little I’ve been using my voice lately, because it’s so raspy now. “If I dance I’ll be hurt, and if I’m hurt I can’t dance, but if I can’t dance I can’t be hurt.” That makes me sad. I want to be hurt, I _deserve_ to be hurt, but it needs to be repeated, not a single injury and then be _done_ , something that happens again and again.

I have a knife, I remind myself. _No,_ I argue. _No, never again._ Because I remember the box cutter, and the blood on my carpet, and the paper towel that I had sitting in the waistband of my jeans and the paper towels in my shoes and that’s why I ran, that’s why I finally left. No more intent. Never again.

“Can you look at me?” the voice asks. I need to stop thinking ‘the voice’ because it’s a man, I can see him in my peripheral, he’s there.

“I just wanna dance,” I repeat, because that’s it. All I wanna do is dance, to trip over the warped and twisted floor, to twist or strain or even break my ankle.

“I understand that,” he says gently. “But I need you to look at me, please.”

Why’s he worried about me? Why does he even care? I’m just a stranger, some random person that he’s never met. So what if I’m talking nonsense, so what if I’m confusing him. That should be it—confusion, no worry. I feel guilty—is this guilt? It feels more like numb. Now I’m confused.

“Why?” I rasp finally. “Is it that important, that I look at you?”

“Yes,” he whispers gently. “Yes, it is that important.”

“You’re lying,” I accuse him. “It’s not important. I’m not important. Good people are important, but I’m not a good person. I want to dance, because that’s all I deserve. I’m not good people. I’m not important.” I’m in a dance studio, but I can’t dance. I could dance. But I’m not. Why not?

“Of course you’re important.” He sounds sad. “Everyone’s important, whether they’re good people or bad people. And I don’t know you, but I refuse to believe you’re a bad person.”

That’s why I left Chicago. I realize it now. Not because it wasn’t far enough. Because _they_ believed in me there. Patrick, Elisa, Declan. They didn’t know Hailey, who tore apart her family. They knew Kairi, who was scared and lost and alone. And they believed in me. They thought I was a good person, because I helped an adorable, crying little boy find his mother. One good deed doesn’t change anything. Keeping one family together doesn’t undo the damage done to my own.

“You’re wrong,” I tell him finally. Resolutely. I stand up suddenly, still not looking at him as I tuck my bag in a hidden corner and fish out my wallet. The little money I have left, I’ll use it to find someplace to do laundry and take a shower, buy some more professional clothes. Maybe I can get a job at the coffee shop across the street.

“Please look at me,” he says again. I can’t. I’m afraid to, at this point. If I look at him, see the worry and the sincerity on his face, then it’s game over. He’ll be another person begging me to let him help me, another person I break when I inevitably fuck it up.

I sit there, crouching beside my hidden bag, wallet in hand, blinking away tears. I won’t cry in front of him. I can’t cry in front of him.

Honestly, I’m surprised I’ve got tears left. Surprised I’ve got the emotional capability to _need_ to cry left. All I’ve felt is numb, since a few days after resuming my cross country hike (which sounds much better than fleeing so far from home). But all I do is sit there, because I can feel the panic clawing its way up my throat. It’s white hot, searing, and I’m choking all over again, in front of a new stranger with the same urge to help that Elisa had and it’s too much and I _can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe_.

And suddenly, he’s next to me again, this new stranger with the old request, slowly reaching out and placing a hand on my back, right between my shoulder blades. He’s radiating with his request to _look at me_ , and still I ignore it. If I look at him, my resolve will crumble, and I’ll let him help me. I don’t deserve his help.

I deserve to dance a dance in this studio, this dance floor of waiting injury and pain.

I deserve to dance the Danse Macabre.

* * *

 

I caved. I am weak and worthless and my resolve is made of nothing more than burning matchsticks, taking nothing more than one breath, well placed with malicious intent, to knock it down to the ground, the flames spreading and leaping outwards, setting fire to my weak contentment to stay in the warped and twisted dance studio and my flimsy mask of functionality. I looked at him.

And now I find myself in the home of another vocalist of another band I’m obsessed with, in love with, another celebrity I never thought I’d really meet but always thought I’d be grateful of the circumstances that brought me there. Another instance where I was wrong, so wrong.

“Bathroom’s down the hall. If you need anything, just let me know, all right?” I need people to stop caring, I need my idols to stop reminding me of _why_ exactly they’re my idols, I need to go back to the studio, I need…

I need to be alone, I need to be the only one who knows I exist, the only one who knows I’m broken.

I need to be me, and nobody else.

But I can’t say that, not to _Brendon fucking Urie,_ because he’ll only tell me I’m wrong, that I don’t need to be alone but to be in good company, company of other fuckups who know what it’s like to feel as though you’ve exhausted your right to companionship, to friendship, to anything.

So I only nod at him, rasp out a “Kay,” and step into the cozy little guest room, far more welcoming than I deserve. It looks threatening in its welcoming, almost, and I can’t help but feel frustrated at the way that it makes no sense. My mind makes no sense, not to me and it certainly won’t make sense to Brendon. The door closes and I drop my bag to the floor. I need a shower, can’t get into the beautifully made bed without one. I’m grungy and dirty and absolutely disgusting, coated in a layer of dirt, sweat, a little bit of blood. I really need to shower, but I can’t bring myself to do anything other than sink down to the floor, in the exact same position I’d been in when Brendon Urie found me at the studio.

I stay there until I can see the light outside turn into the warm gold of sunset, then clamber up to my feet, mostly on autopilot. I’ll take a shower, then try to eat whatever it is that’s for dinner. Put some weight back on, clean myself up, wash my clothes, get a job. This is nothing more than an intermediary, a stop where I can pull myself together. I can do anything, so long as I get through this.

I open the door and walk down the hall to the bathroom. I can hear the sounds of a piano, he must be playing. That’s nice, I can be uninterrupted for a little while longer.

There are two towels and a washcloth sitting on top of the sink, unscented Suave shampoo and conditioner, and a half-empty bottle of Victoria’s Secret Pink body wash. I’ve never used Pink, but I’ve heard that it’s not too terrible. It smells good, at least.

I move the towels closer to the stand-in shower and put the soaps inside of it. Grabbing the washcloth, I turn on the tap and step in.

In some interview I’ve seen (they all blurred together around high school), someone said that life on tour teaches you that a hot shower truly can turn you into a different person. Let me tell you this: whoever it was, they were right. I’ve spent so long cleaning myself out of gas station bathroom sinks—sometimes they’re hot, sometimes they aren’t—that I’ve forgotten how good it feels to have hot water hammering against my back. And Brendon Urie’s water pressure is truly astounding. I can’t remember if CA is in the middle of a drought again (probably, they always are), but I really can’t bring myself to care. I am not rushing this shower, it feels so fucking good.

The water draining into the tap is grey with my grime. I almost can’t believe it’s that bad—I thought I was just tan. That’s probably part of it too, granted, but still.

I don’t know how long I stand there, staring at the water rinsing off the layer of _blegh_ , but I don’t move until it runs clear, and even then it takes a while before I finally reach out and grab the shampoo to finally wash my hair.

I wash it two more times, because it’s been two months and it probably needs it.

When I finally do get around to getting out, my skin is so red from standing under the hot water for so long, but I feel cleaner than I have in my whole life. I can’t imagine ever going this long without a shower again.

I open the door to the guest room and freeze. There’s some clothes on the bed, not my clothes. I slowly step closer, as if they could bite me if I approach to fast, like they’re a stray dog.

There’s a note on top. _Wasn’t sure if you had clean clothes. Figured it was better safe than sorry._

It’s nothing special—grey sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt. But they’re _his_ , and this is truly just too much on the niceness front (never mind the fact that Elisa did the same thing), and I’m honestly tempted to just stay in a towel for the rest of the night. But I can’t do that—I really do want to wear some clean clothes.

It scares me how tight I have to pull the string on the sweats before they sit right, how the size medium t-shirt drowns me out. I know I’m skinny, but _god_ this is bad.

I go back into the bathroom to hang up the towels to dry, take a deep breath, and walk downstairs. Because I’ve realized, somewhere between him laying out towels and soap and him _lending me his fucking **clothes**_ : Brendon Urie is a genuinely good person. The Stumps were genuinely good people. They didn’t deserve for me to just up and leave, and Brendon doesn’t deserve that, either. I’m going to try, try to stay until I have an actual place of my own to go, and I’m not going to leave him with no warning (I’ll apologize to Patrick and Elisa once I don’t face the threat of a panic attack at the thought of it).

Hailey was a monster. Kairi is not. Kairi is good, Kairi is kind. I am Kairi. Hailey isn’t real, not anymore.

There are voices coming from the kitchen. I recognize who Brendon’s talking to from the Periscopes I used to watch, back when I had the time and the inclination to do so. And I may be ready to face Brendon, but I’m not ready to face Zack.

But I can’t hide forever. And if there’s one thing I remember from those Periscopes (which seem a lifetime away), Zack comes over a _lot_. So I take another deep breath—much shakier than the last one—and step into the kitchen.

The sudden silence and the way they both stare at me confirms what I’d suspected to begin with: they’re talking about me.

Suddenly, Brendon smiles. “Glad you could join us.” It sounds sincere, but also forced? I don’t understand. Maybe I’m just reading too much into it.

Zack holds out a hand and introduces himself. I shake it, muttering out an uncertain, “Kairi.”

He smiles at me, and the genuineness of everyone I meet floors me. Whatever he and Brendon were talking about doesn’t seem to stop him from being pleased that I came downstairs. My stomach rolls uncertainly at the realization that it’s only because they don’t know what I’ve done.

“So,” Brendon says grandly, clapping his hands together. “I was thinking pizza for dinner?”

“Fuck yeah,” Zack agrees enthusiastically.

“Pizza sounds…good,” I add, rubbing my right hand along my left arm. It’s so cold. I’d forgotten how amazing air con was.

Next thing I know, I’m following Zack and Brendon into the living room and sitting down in the armchair.

“So, Kairi, how long have you been in LA?” Brendon asks. I can tell he’s trying to find something that isn’t too personal, something that doesn’t come around to what I was doing in the studio where he found me (I want to know what he was doing there too, but if I ask him that then he probably won’t tell me until I tell him my reason).

“Couple weeks.”

“What part of Carolina are you from?”

I snap my head up to stare at Zack, completely at a loss as to how the hell he knew that.

He laughs. “I’ve been here so long, it’s always nice to hear an Eastern Carolina accent.”

While I can see his logic, I certainly don’t agree with it. I’d be totally happy never having to hear an Eastern Carolina accent for the rest of my life. “I’m from Emerald Isle,” I admit finally.

“Long way from home,” Brendon observes. _Don’t ask it don’t ask it don’t—_ “What brings you to sunny California?” _Fuck._

“I just…needed a change of scenery, I guess.” _Please leave it there, please leave it there._

“You needed a change of scenery, so you left your beach for a different beach?”

**_Fuck_**.

“I…yes.” I shrug, not really knowing a good response that makes me seem sane here. But then, I’m not even the slightest bit sane at the moment. I’m plagued with a special kind of madness, the kind that comes from living alone and rarely ever interacting with people for two months. But if I’m going to pretend to be okay, then I really need to act like I’m okay.

Brendon nudges Zack subtly, and I wouldn’t notice it if I hadn’t been noticing everything lately, and Zack doesn’t press it further.

The two of them fall into an easy conversation, so I kind of just zone out. They don’t need my input, and I wouldn’t know what to say anyway. I don’t even know what they’re talking about. So I lose myself in thought, mostly about the whole getting a job thing. I could do that coffee shop. I worked at the Saxby’s just off campus when I was in college, and I was actually pretty good at it. I’m clean now, I can probably fix my hair so that it looks like it was done by someone who knew what they were doing, and not with a skinning knife. Go to the store tomorrow, get a button down shirt and a pair of slacks, I’ll look exactly like the person you’d want to hire.

“Kairi?” Brendon’s voice breaks me out of my reverie. I start and look up at him with wide eyes.

“Huh?”

“I asked you what you’re thinking so hard about.” He sounds pretty patient, given I’ve just been ignoring him. I wonder if he’s used to that from women in their early twenties.

“Oh. Just…” I don’t get to finish, because the doorbell rings. Honestly, I’m actually kind of grateful for that. I’m pretty sure that they know by now that I’m homeless (I’m deathly skinny and I was covered in dirt when Brendon found me, it’s not rocket science), but I don’t need them to know that I don’t have a job either ( ~~because that’s not obvious either~~ ).

Brendon comes back carrying three pizza boxes; I blanch at the sight of them. I don’t know how much he and Zack eat, but I doubt that I’ll even be able to finish one slice. I’ve been eating so little lately that I get full on half a fucking Pop Tart. _Eat ‘til you’re full, then eat a little more. You need to put on weight._

I haven’t been on a scale since before I ~~ran away~~ left, but I know that I’m definitely underweight now. When I change clothes, I can see my ribs and my hipbones and my collarbones and, frankly, it’s terrifying. And I know neither of these guys can tell that right now, but they can certainly see how big Brendon’s shirt sits on me, and he’s hardly a big guy.

“So I wasn’t sure what you liked,” Brendon explains, setting the boxes on the coffee table. Zack stands up and disappears towards the kitchen. “So I got cheese, sausage, and pepperoni. Basics, you know?”

I nod. “Basics sound great,” I agree, mainly because if he had asked me what I wanted I wouldn’t be able to remember/decide. It’s been so long, and I’m just so hungry anyway. I’ll take anything at this point, I don’t even care.

Zack comes back and hands me a plate before he grabs himself three slices of pepperoni. I slowly reach out and grab a slice of sausage pizza, settling back in. Thankfully, neither Zack nor Brendon say anything, especially since Brendon grabs three slices himself. _Where the fuck does he_ put _all that?_

I try to pay attention this time when the two of them dissolve into conversation, but it’s pretty hard to keep up. They’re talking about the band, and I’ve been so out of touch with everything that I don’t even know what the fuck they’re talking about. _Is it seriously already time for Reading and Leeds?_ And that’s when Zack says something that really caught my attention.

“So…How’s Sarah doing?”

Brendon sighs. “She went back home,” he says quietly, fidgeting with his left hand.

I knew that I’d been out of touch, but I didn’t realize I was _this_ out of it. And I had wondered where Sarah’s been. I know I wouldn’t be okay with my husband bringing home some random strange woman. But it’s pretty clear now. I almost wish I hadn’t figured it out.

Brendon and Sarah were divorced.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Sarah. I love Brendon WITH Sarah. But, like, this wouldn't have worked with them together (obviously, it's Brendon/OFC), and I hate pretending people don't exist.  
> If my math's right (which it should be) this is set in July of 2018, in case anyone was wondering. I'm sure that'll be important at some point.


	3. You're Pulling the Trigger All Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things start to come out (but not to Brendon).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Bogart a Jack Russell? I think he is. He is for the purpose of this, at any rate.

_“Auntie Hailey.”_

_I breathe out a sigh of relief as I kneel down in front of Tristan. “Tristan, Buddy. I’ve missed you so much.”_

_He backs up away from me, and it breaks my heart to see it. “Then why’d you send me away in the first place?” he demands darkly._

_“No, no Bud, that’s not what happened, I—”_

_“You called them,” he accuses. ~~He’s right he’s right I called them I—~~_

_“Tristan, please, you have to believe me, I—”_

_“You RUINED MY LIFE! STAY AWAY FROM ME!”_

My eyes snap open, throat closed up. I choke out a sob as I detangle myself from my sheets. I freeze as I hear a thump and a yelp. I look over the edge of the bed, finding a Jack Russel Terrier staring up at me.

“Hi, Bogart,” I choke out, reaching down to pet him. I’m not sure how he got in here—my door’s shut, and he’s not a cat, but I can’t really bring myself to care. There is a furry animal, and I had a nightmare. I pick him up and place him next to me on the bed, scratching his belly. “You’re cuter in person. Did you know that? And you’re much nicer than Little One.” Little One was a Jack Russell that my neighbor had when I was a kid, and she was a viscous fucker. Baby was well-behaved, but Little One was fucking terrifying.

“I’ll bet you’re a good listener, too,” I whisper. “I could tell you all my secrets, and you wouldn’t tell a soul, would you? Not even Brendon?” And all of a sudden, I can see why puppy therapy works so well. Bogart won’t judge me for what I did to my family ( ~~neither did Patrick neither did Elisa neither is Brendon~~ ), but he won’t tell me everything’s going to be all right, either. He wouldn’t even know what I was saying.

“I messed everything up, Bogart.” I stop petting him, and he rolls over, hiding his belly and looking at me with wide eyes. “I took the one good thing in Dustin’s life, the one good thing he’s done with his life. I brought in the suits, and now he’ll never be convinced he’s good enough. And…” I take a shaky breath. “I told him, when Tristan was first born, I _told_ him, he _is_ good enough. It’s just.” I know what it is, it’s just hard to say this aloud—to a dog or a wall or even just the skies. I tried saying this to the trees in…I think it was in Nebraska. “He was so scared,” I breathe out finally, barely any sound coming out. “He didn’t want to turn into _him_ , he was so afraid, and he. He did. Exactly that, he became him. And I couldn’t put Tristan through all that. I’ve seen what it does to you, I’ve _become_ what it does to you, and Tristan means the whole world to me. But I’ve just completely destroyed my brother’s life, and I was too much of a coward to stick around long enough to see the fallout of my actions.” Bogart blinked at me, creeping closer until he was pressed against my side.

I still can’t get back to sleep. I stare at the clock on the bedside table, watching it creep closer to a somewhat decent hour for getting out of bed and gently stroking Bogart.

Once the clock hits seven, I climb out of the bed and stretch. I only got a couple hours of sleep, but it’s still a better two hours than I’ve gotten in a long ass time.

I want to change out of Brendon’s clothes, but I don’t have any clean clothes yet, so I’m stuck like this. I creep down the stairs, not sure if Brendon’s awake yet or not, but not wanting to wake him up if he’s not. I hear the skittering of claws across the floor, then Penny’s in front of me.  “Well, hi,” I whisper, kneeling down to pet her.

I like animals. They love you, no matter what you’ve done. So long as you pet them, feed them, and don’t abuse them, they’ll shower you with love (and slobber).

“They don’t usually take to strangers this quickly.”

I stand up and spin around, looking sheepishly at Brendon. “I’m just good with animals, I guess,” I mumble, not really sure how I’m supposed to respond that.

“Yeah,” Brendon agrees absently. “Yeah, that must be it.” I shift nervously; that look on his face is a bit more intense than I’d like. He snaps himself out of it when Bogart comes running down the stairs, stopping at the door and barking out at something in the yard. “What’d you see, Bogart? See a squirrel?” He slides the door open, watching as both the dogs run out into the yard. He turns around to me. “Did you have any dogs?” he asks me, leaning against the wall.

“Not recently, no,” I reply, moving over to stand beside him. It’s easier to avoid his gaze if I’m right next to him. “I had a few when I was a kid, but the last one died when I was in middle school.”

“Aw, that sucks,” he says sympathetically. “I can’t imagine what I’ll do when I lose these two.”

I look out into the yard, watching Bogart and Penny run around. “It is terrible,” I recall sadly. “We got Sammy when I was a baby. Even when we moved to a place where the landlord didn’t want dogs, we brought him with us.” I don’t mention how totally possessive Dustin was of him, or the fact that I found out (for sure; I suspected) that he was dead when it came out in an argument with my mother. I can’t say that yet. I don’t know if Kairi has an older brother yet (and if she does, it would certainly be Adrian, not Dustin), and I can’t have Brendon asking about him until I figure everything out.

Kairi has to have an older brother, because Kairi has Tristan. No matter what, I must have Tristan. I refuse to deny him, I _can’t_ deny him. Tristan is _mine_ , more than he’s Dustin’s, more than he’s Rachel’s, more than anyone in the world, Dustin is _mine_. And _nothing_ , not my sins, not my cowardice, _nothing_ is going to take that fact away from me.

“You seem to do that a lot.”

I blink, looking sideways at Brendon. “Do what?”

“Get lost in your head,” he explains. He’s looking down at me, giving me the same intense expression he had earlier. “When was the last time you actually had a real conversation with someone?”

I stare down at the floor, at my bare feet against the hardwood. “I think it was about two months,” I admit. There’s something akin to shame in my gut, but that makes no sense. Why should I be shameful about something like that?

“How old are you?” I’m sure there’s a specific destination Brendon’s got in mind here, some reason he’s asking all these pointed questions. What’s worse, I feel like I know exactly what that destination is, and I don’t like it all that much.

“What’s the date?” I counter with, because I have a summer birthday, and I have no idea if it’s passed or not.

“July second,” he answers readily.

“Twenty-one.” There’s that shame again, and that makes even less sense to me. Because while there’s nothing shameful in not talking to anyone for two months, there is plenty of shame in my reasoning. But there’s no shame in my age; it’d be the same in NC as it is here in LA. I just don’t understand.

He stares at me for a little longer, then his expression changes to a broad grin. “Well, if you’re twenty-one, then I can legally offer you a beer.”

And that’s a difficult decision. I’ve had alcohol, some of it ingested legally, some of it not. I’ve tried a lot of things, but I’ve never tried beer. I shy away from it. It’s my father’s poison, the powder keg to the first time my life crumbled. I’m afraid to try it, because I’m afraid of what it’ll do to me.

It’s the one thing I have in common with Dustin: the fear of being like my dad. But unlike Dustin, I’m handling my greatest fear well. I’m _facing_ my greatest fear. He sees one sign of it and he explodes, yells and shouts and punches things ( ~~people my mom my brother me did he hit Tristan please tell me he didn’t~~ ). I shy so far away from anything that could turn me into him, and if I do see some sign that I’m turning into him, that my absolute worst nightmare is coming true, I fling it across the room and cower.

~~So maybe I’m not facing it as well as I thought.~~

“It’s only seven in the morning,” I point out, unwilling to explain any of that to him.

“Fair enough,” he acknowledges with a nod. “Maybe later?”

I shrug. “Yeah, maybe.” While I try to figure out whether or not I really want to try my father’s poison.

“Alright. Beer later, breakfast now,” Brendon declares. I’m not really sure if I’m actually hungry, but I do know I’m starved, so I’ll eat anyway. Until I’m full, then a little bit more. “We can have some of the leftover pizza, or I can make bacon and eggs.”

That’s a whole new internal struggle for me, honestly. Brendon’s doing so much for me already, I can’t just ask him to actually cook too. But I need something more sustaining than cold pizza, or any pizza at all. I need real food, protein. And eggs have a _lot_ of protein. “Bacon and eggs sounds really good,” I mumble finally. “Please.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” he says, stepping away from the wall and heading into the kitchen. I follow him, simply for lack of anything better to do.

“So, personal question,” Brendon warns me as he puts a pan on the stove. “And you’re allowed to be as vague as possible, even ignore it altogether.” He pulls the bacon out of the fridge and opens the pack, laying strips down in the frying pan. “How is it that a twenty-one-year-old comes to be homeless and starving, when she’s only been in this city for two weeks?”

I climb onto one of the barstools by the kitchen island, not looking at Brendon. I see now what that intense look had been. This is the direction I saw his questions from earlier going, where I didn’t want them to go.

“Life sucks,” I mumble darkly, my gaze hardening into a glare.

“Don’t set my island on fire!” Brendon exclaims, making some kind of bad joke to the way I’m glaring at his counter. “I love this thing.” His face changes from amused to understanding almost immediately after. “Must have been really bad, if it got you here.”

I laugh hollowly. “It was…The English language doesn’t have a word for how bad.” I would know, I’ve spent plenty of time trying to think of one. I find myself staring at Brendon’s left hand, at the ring that isn’t there anymore. I wonder when it happened, when he announced it to the world.

He follows my gaze, curling the hand into a fist. “Life sucks,” he parrots.

I look back up at him. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“I asked you a pretty fucking personal question,” Brendon reminds me, cutting off my apology. “It’s only fair that you get one, too.” He turns around, and I look back down at the island. I only look back up when a glass of orange juice is slid in front of me.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask him quietly, staring up at him. “Why are you helping me like this?”

Brendon doesn’t answer at first. I start to think he never will, opting instead to poke around at the bacon with a fork. “I was looking into locations for a new video,” he says finally. I have no idea where the hell he’s going with this, but at the very least I’m intrigued. “And I thought, there’s this old dance studio that could be _perfect_.” Oh, that’s where. “And when I got there, there was this woman, lying there on the floor. She looked like she hadn’t taken a shower in fuck knows how long, and like she hadn’t had a decent meal in even longer. Honestly, I was about to turn around, leave her be. Maybe come back later with some food or something, I dunno. But then she started talking about the doors, and the shape the floors were in.” He finally looks up at me, and he looks sad. Not for himself, but for me. “I thought you were delusional, or something worse. You’re pretty obviously malnourished, and you’ve got to be overheated. I was afraid you needed a hospital.”

“Is that why it was so important to you that I looked at you?”

He nods. “I needed to know you were hearing me. Because you weren’t responding, you were just…talking. Rambling about something that made no sense.”

“Well, to be fair, two months is a long time to not talk to people,” I point out.

“And you seemed to _really_ want to dance on that warped floor,” Brendon added. “Which was weird, because you also seemed to know that it wouldn’t end very well.”

I bite my cheek; I refuse to answer that one. To tell him it was because I thought I deserved the pain. Still think I deserve it. Brendon Urie helping me, I can kind of handle. Brendon Urie believing in me, I can’t handle it at all. Just like the Stumps. I don’t deserve people believing in me. I deserve them hating me, shaming me.

“All right, I got it,” Brendon amends after a moment, flipping the bacon. “Too far.”

* * *

I’ve got this strange feeling that Brendon _might_ have talked to Patrick at some point yesterday. He had to go to the recording studio, but he told me where the laundry room was, told me I was welcome to food, to play the piano, to anything. And he seemed _very_ nervous that he’d come home, and I wouldn’t be here.

I had been planning on going out, getting more professional clothes, find a job, but I think I should wait until Brendon can come home and not panic when I’m not here (not that I believe that’ll ever really happen). Problem with waiting is, I don’t know what to do with myself. Big house, all alone. I don’t know how to play the piano, and I’ve only got enough clothes for one load of laundry. Maybe I can watch Netflix or something, he’s got an Xbox One.

I’d almost forgotten just how bad my clothes smelled—or maybe I’d just gone nose blind to the rank stench. But I remember it as soon as I unzip my bag to start throwing them in the washing machine. It’s not even half a load. Just two pairs of jeans, six t-shirts, a hoodie, and the shorts and tank top I had on when I left Carolina. There was a Hot Topic in Chicago, and they had a sale where they take 30% off any clothes you can fit in a bookbag, plus 30% off the bag. And that’s what I could fit. The bag probably needs a wash too, but I don’t know if it’s washer safe. It’s probably not, it’s faux leather and faux fur.

It takes me about thirty minutes to figure out Brendon’s entertainment system set-up, given that his TV is literally _in_ the wall, and I’ve never had any Xbox in my life, so I have to figure out that one as well. It takes me another twenty minutes to work up how to pull up Netflix.

Honestly, it was all over when I saw that they’d added Orphan Black. I missed season four in almost its entirety, because I spent most of it moving here ( ~~I refuse to call it running I didn’t run~~ ). I settled in, curling up into a little ball. It’s unnerving, the fact that I’m more comfortable like that now. I used to sprawl out, take up as much space as physically possible. Now it’s all just fetal position.

I’m three episodes in when my phone _ping_ s. I’d almost forgotten it could do that, it’s been so long since anybody’s tried to text. And I almost don’t check it, because the only people with my number are people I don’t really want to talk to. But I do, because it could be someone I wouldn’t mind hearing from.

_I don’t know if you’re actually hungry or not but it’s 130 you should probably eat something._

_Also don’t ask me how I got your number I’ll explain when I get home._

I knew Brendon was more worried about me than I felt I deserved, but I didn’t realize he was _this_ concerned. Making sure that I remembered to _eat_? I almost don’t, just to spite him. I’m not five, and I don’t feel hungry anyway. But I know that he’s right, I should eat. Not asking him how he got my number…that’s a different story. My phone is locked, and he not only has my number, but I have his as well. Which means he somehow managed to break into my phone, input his number, then text himself. Honestly, I’m more pissed because he could have seen the texts from my family.

I pause the show, nudging both the dogs off my lap (they seem to really like me) and climbing up from the couch. I don’t know what I want to eat, and I don’t really know what he has anyway. I move to the kitchen and look through his cupboards and fridge. Absolutely nothing appeals to me and I’m not sure if I remember how to make anything anyway. I groan and bang my head against his fridge. “Why?” I ask myself plaintively. Why am I _here_? Why am I so concerned with not making him worry about me more than he was before? Why am I in LA at all? Why couldn’t I have just gotten over whatever self-loathing I had going on back in Chicago and just stayed with Patrick and Elisa?

( ~~The answer to the last one is that I’m a coward but that’s neither here nor there~~.)

After another ten minutes of self-debate (I still really wanted to just go back and watch Netflix, forget about eating) I decided to just make a grilled cheese. I’ve known how to do that since I was, like, twelve, and it wasn’t that hard to remember. I just hoped I’d actually be able to finish it.

* * *

When Brendon finally comes home, he looks almost surprised to see me sitting on his couch. I try not to dwell too hard on how much that confirms my suspicions about talking to Patrick.

“I give you free reign over everything in this house, and you watch Netflix?” It’s a piss-poor attempt at a joking tone, but I’ll give him props for trying.

“It was this or selling your piano,” I tell him in a perfect deadpan. “This seemed like a better option.” ~~Although I had considered selling the damn thing anyway. I deserve the anger, deserve to be kicked out.~~

He laughs uneasily. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d have…Don’t sell anything in here.”

“Can I sell house tours to the teeny boppers that would sell their left kidneys to know where you sleep?” I’m very proud of myself for managing to keep a straight face. Couple months ago I’d have smiled to show that I was kidding.

Brendon blinked. “Okay, I can’t tell if you’re serious or not, and it makes me very nervous.”

I shrug. “You’ll never know.” I would add an evil laugh for effect, but I don’t know if I _can_ laugh anymore, obviously fake or otherwise. “So you gonna tell me how you got my number?”

He sits down next to me on the couch, deliberately avoiding looking at me. I think it’s a bit rude, since I’m actually looking at him this time. This is probably a one-time thing, he should be utilizing this. “I didn’t go through your phone,” he says finally. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

It was. But that’s not the only thing. “That’s not what I asked.” My voice is steely, something I wasn’t expecting. He winces, showing that he wasn’t expecting it either.

“This was a lot easier in my head,” he mumbles, and I can’t blame him.

“A lot of things are.” Running was easier in my head. The call was easier. Saying goodbye was easier. Everything that’s happened these past two and a half months was easier in my head than it was in practice. “But I’m sure coming into my room while I was sleeping is a lot less creepy than it sounds.”

He flinches again. “I was just…heat exhaustion or starvation or both at the same time, okay? I just wanted to make sure you didn’t die in the middle of the night or something.”

I can understand _that_ logic. That explains how Bogart got in, too. What I don’t understand is, “And how does checking on me translate to unlocking my phone and getting my number?”

“I…It doesn’t, now,” he admits finally. “It was like, two am, it made sense then.” He stares up at the TV for a moment, but I doubt he’s actually following what’s going on on-screen (I also am not following what’s going on, I’m actually very confused). After a moment, he stands and says, “I’m getting a beer. Want one?”

“No thanks.” I’ve thought about this one, how to avoid it without having to explain about my dad, and my problems, and what’s going on in my head. “’M probably still pretty dehydrated, I don’t think alcohol will help.”

Brendon nods. “Good point, yeah.” Something tells me he knows that there’s something else, some other, less logical and more personal, reason for that, but I don’t really care at this point. So long as I’ve got a good, objective reason, no questions need to be asked. He comes back a moment later, and hands me a glass of water. “For dehydration,” he grins, and now I know he knows, but I don’t mind. I mind too much about too many other things, I don’t have the mental capacity to care about this too.

“So it occurs to me,” he says slowly, after a moment, “that the only thing I know about you is your name, where you’re from, and your age.” I don’t break it to him that he doesn’t even know my name, not really. “Think we can change that?” It’s a good idea, really. But I don’t know if this is just a way of trying to wheedle information out of me, of getting me to share my secrets and my personal life. Before I can think too deeply into it, he adds, “If I ask anything that’s too personal, you can refuse to answer. Just like this morning.” That’s much more fair, giving me permission to say, ‘no, I don’t want to tell you that.’ So I nod.

“Okay.” I look up at the TV, with the show I randomly selected a while ago still playing. “How do I…?”

“Xbox, off,” Brendon commands, with a bit of a grin. “Voice controlled. Fucking awesome.” That would have been nice to know a few hours ago, when I was staring at the thing and trying to figure out how to work it. I miss my (brother’s ( ~~the good brother~~ )) PlayStation. I settle back into the couch and look up at him expectantly.

“What was Emerald Isle like?” he asks finally.

“Hot,” I answer readily. “Humid. Movie theater only plays four movies at a time.”

He laughs. “ _Four_?” he repeats. “The fuck kind of theater is that?”

“There was one in Jacksonville that plays sixteen,” I amend. “And another that played twelve. So it could have been worse.” I pause thoughtfully. “But the Isle had Dippin’ Dots.”

“Oh, then fuck the other two.” He pauses to take a sip of his beer. “Is family life off the table?” He asks quietly.

I look down at my hands and think for a moment. “I’ve got two brothers and a nephew,” I tell him finally. “And two friends who are so close I call them my brother and sister. But I’m not saying anything else.” It’s pretty clear he already knew I left Carolina because of my family. Now he didn’t have any reason to doubt it.

“All right. Did you go to college?”

This, this one I’m good at. Virginia has no emotional baggage, no regrets, no huge and glaring things that tell me ‘you can never come back’ (except my uncle ~~who I’m not turning into I’m not like him I had a good reason I’m not my uncle~~ ). “Yeah. I went to George Mason, in Virginia.”

He studies me for a moment. “Why’d you go out of state?”

“I always knew I wasn’t going to stay in Carolina,” I say quietly. “My grandparents are in Northern Virginia, so’s an aunt and uncle on dad’s side, and an uncle on mom’s. I grew up visiting the area, and I really liked it.”

“Why didn’t you stay?” And I can hear the real meaning, clear as day. _Why come here?_

~~Not far enough too close too many people to tell my mom too predictable they’d find me I can’t have them find me~~.

“I haven’t quite figured that one out for myself, honestly.”

I can feel that look, the look he gives me when he’s thinking, filing away my answers to form a much more personal question, one that makes me think about everything I’ve been avoiding, and waiting to ask me later. I hate that look, but I can’t blame him for having it.

“What’s your favorite show?” he asks after a moment, and it’s so mundane, so trite, that I can’t help but be suspicious. And all the questions he asks from there are along similar veins, and I fall into an unsteady and temporary state of ease as I tell him that I like bright colors but only ever wear darks, tell him that yes I’m a fan, of course I’m a fan, that I like Harry Potter and Doctor Who and that my favorite candy bar is anything that uses white chocolate. But in the back of my head, through all of it, I can still remember that Look, that contemplative look, that says _We aren’t done with the personal questions. Not by a long shot._

 


	4. You Can Take the Kid Out of the Fight

Over the next week, we fall into a somewhat-steady routine. I’m still paranoid, still waiting for the other shoe to drop, because Brendon keeps giving me that Look, but he hasn’t asked me anything yet. He always warns me before getting on Periscope, letting me know that he’s going live in front of a few thousand people so that I don’t wander into the frame (it’d cause awkward questions and fan speculation and I don’t want people to know I’m here). Zack comes over a few more times, and he and Brendon try to include me in their conversations more.

I’m still ridiculously skinny, which I know won’t change for _months_ at least, but it doesn’t make me any less terrified. I look like I’ll be blown away by even the slightest breeze, and my ribs and hips and collarbones still jut out from beneath my skin. But neither Brendon nor Zack are rude enough to point it out. Brendon makes sure I eat, still texts me at around lunch time whenever he has to go out, because he knows that if he doesn’t then I won’t notice that I’m hungry. But I _am_ eating, and drinking water, and I feel much better physically then I did when I first showed up.

Mentally, though, I think I might even be worse. The anxiety that Brendon’s going to ask me about what happened with my family is the least of my worries. I’m afraid that one day he’ll see what kind of person I am, what it is I’ve done, without even having to ask. That he’ll piece it together and all of his worry, his concern, ~~his pity~~ will turn to disgust, to hate, and he’ll tell me to get lost. And I’ll deserve it, and I won’t fight it, and I’ll just nod at him, grab my bag, and I’ll leave. Go back to the old dance studio, buy those professional clothes, and get a job.

Or maybe I’ll just dance. Dance on that warped and twisted floor.

“You should stop thinking like that.” I jump, because I was so deep in headspace that I didn’t hear Brendon come in, didn’t see him sit down next to me, didn’t even feel that Look.

“Thinking like what?” I start picking at my nails, an old nervous habit and an excuse not to look at him.

“Like everything’s hopeless,” he explains. He sounds sad, and it floors me for a minute. It’s not pity, it’s not I-feel-bad-for-you, it’s you’re-sad-and-it’s-making-me-sad-too. It’s empathy and it’s genuine. It’s unexpected, but not at all comforting. “I see it in the way you look at me. You think I’m going to kick you out, don’t you?” My silence seems to be answer enough, because he sighs.

“All right, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m pretty sure that when I found you, you were at rock bottom,” he says finally. “I’m not going to help you up and then shove you back down. You don’t deserve that.”

And that’s it, that’s my breaking point. That’s where my throat closes up and I can’t breathe can’t breathe can’t even think and all I can tell him is, “You don’t know that.”

He lets out a frustrated groan and shifts, so that he’s right in front of me and grabbing my shoulders. “Kairi, look at me.” And I do, simply because I can’t think straight enough not to. “I don’t know how you got here,” he admits firmly. “I don’t know what happened to you that made you need so _desperately_ to come so _far_ from home.” I’m not surprised he’s figured that out. “But here’s what I do know: You’ve been through a hell of a lot to get here. You’re only twenty-one, and you’ve been through more than most of the forty-year-olds I know. I only want to _help_ you. I’m not going to send you back out there on your feet until you can stand on your own, and I’m not going to pressure you into moving any faster to be able to. Maybe you think you deserve it, deserve to be abandoned like that, but you _don’t_. And I know that, not because I know what you’ve done—because I don’t have a fucking clue—but because _nobody_ deserves that.”

_Nobody deserves that_. But what about the people who have _done_ that to someone else? Threw someone a rope to pull them up, only to cut the rope and watch them fall?

I don’t notice my vision blurring until the tears have started to fall, and Brendon’s arms are around me tightly before I can even come to the realization that I’m crying, fisting my hands in his shirt and burying my face in his shoulder.

I realize, now, that pity and gratitude are not the only kindnesses in this world. There’s a third, more impossible kindness. It’s genuine, exists only in people who help you, not to ease their own minds, but because they truly, honestly, want to _help_.

And I also realize, as I sob into Brendon Urie’s shoulder, with him gently rubbing a hand along my back and just letting me cry, that this third kindness is the cruelest kindness of all.

* * *

 

After that, I try to relax. I believe him, now, when he says he won’t just send me back out on the street. I also believe him (although slightly less) when he continues to assure me that I’m not bothering him, that I’m no trouble to have around. I think I only believe that because I don’t eat a lot and (besides that first day) don’t take very long showers. His bills barely even notice that I’m there (although he’s a rock star, so even if his bills noticed, his wallet probably wouldn’t), so I’m clearly very good at making myself unnoticeable.

I also try to be a little more open, letting myself laugh at his jokes, contributing to his and Zack’s conversations without prompting. I learn how to differentiate between good personal and bad personal (good personal is Graham, Kaycee, and Adrian. Stories about Tristan that make sense for an aunt to have. One day it’ll include certain stories about Dustin. Bad includes anything about Tristan that reveals how much _mine_ he was, most things about Dustin, and all the things I’ve always kept close to my chest anyway), and I share these good personal things with a small, sad smile on my face.

Kairi becomes more than just a name, a strange girl staying at Brendon Urie’s house. She becomes a person, a person who smiles and talks with her hands and knows how to spin a flag. And it’s easier to answer to Kairi now, to hear my new name without feeling a pang of guilt, because Kairi has people who care about her because they care about her. And Hailey had that too, but they already know to call me Kairi now, and that makes it better.

The only downside to this, this trying to be a person again, is that Brendon’s trying to do more. He’s already feeding me, giving me a place to stay, and just being generally _here_ , and that’s all I need, all I can take. And now he’s trying to do _more_ for me.

“It’s _fine_ ,” I snap finally, spinning round to face him. “It’s enough.”

Brendon sighs, sitting down in the chair and looking up at me. I wonder if he’s struggling to hold his temper, too. “Enough, yes,” he agrees finally. “But just barely. Come on, pajamas, at least.”

“I don’t need you to buy me more clothes,” I say firmly. I’ve said it what feels like a hundred times already. “You’re doing enough for me already. I don’t need more.”

“Don’t need or won’t ask?” Brendon counters. “Because you don’t need to ask. I’m offering. There’s nothing wrong with accepting an offer.”

I lean down, my face a couple inches from his. “Don’t need,” I repeat. “I _don’t need_.” I straighten up and raise an eyebrow. “Didn’t you need to go do a shoot or something?”

Brendon sighs, but stands up. “Just…think about it, okay? Please?” He puts on his sunglasses as he leaves, and I stand there watching the door.

I have thought about it. I have six t-shirts, a tank top, three pairs of jeans, and a pair of shorts. The jeans and shorts can all be worn more than once, and I have enough shirts to last a week. In college, that’s all I needed. Why do I need more here? And I have a hoodie for when it gets cooler, but it’s not going to hit coat weather in LA—that’s why people like to come here. I’ve thought about it, about more clothes, and I’ve decided that I only need slacks, a button down, and better shoes. And I’ve got enough money to buy those myself.

I move to sit down on the arm chair and pull out my phone. I keep getting texts from my old friends, asking me if I’m all right, asking if I’ll ever come back, begging me to please answer. One day, I actually might.

I get lost in the mundane games, things I’ve let myself get re-addicted to, not paying attention to how much time passes. Until there’s a knock on the door.

That’s new. No one’s ever come by while Brendon’s out, and I don’t know if I’m supposed to answer it or not. If it’s not someone who already knows I’m here, I’d have to explain who I am, what I’m doing in Brendon Urie’s house. So I just fold in on myself, burying myself deeper in the game, hoping they’ll go away.

When the door opens, it becomes pretty clear that’s not going to happen. I look up cautiously, brow furrowing in confusion at the smiling woman in front of me. She’s got dark hair and light eyes, and she’s extremely pretty. If I wasn’t so beyond caring about my appearances she would have made me uncomfortable with my choppy hair and unevenly tanned skin.

“Hi,” she says, holding out a hand. “I’m Breezy.”

I blink up at her. “Um…Hi. I’m Kairi.” I tentatively reach out and shake her hand. I know who she is, now. She’s Dallon’s wife, which probably means that Brendon told her I was here. What I can’t figure out is why _she’s_ here.

“So I’ve heard,” she says lightly, sitting down on the coffee table in front of me. I wonder where her kids are. “Don’t you get bored, hanging out around this big house all day?”

I do, of course I do, but I can tell she has a motive for asking, even if I don’t know what that motive may be. So I don’t know if I should tell her that yes, I get bored.

I settle for, “Could be worse,” because it could be, but it could be better, too. “At least there’s Netflix and Wi-Fi.”

Breezy shrugs, makes a noncommittal hum. “Well, _I_ get bored at my place all alone, and the kids are with my parents for the week. I was wondering if maybe you’d like to come out to town with me?” She gives me a look, one that says _please, I could use the company_. I’m still not sure that there isn’t more to it than that. I’m still really paranoid.

“I don’t know…”I say slowly. “I mean…”

“Oh, come on,” Breezy pouts. “There’s so much to do, and I, for one, don’t like doing it without company, and Dallon’s busy. Please?”

She’s up to something. It’s just this hunch that I can’t shake, this feeling that coils deep in my gut. But I can’t tell if it’s a bad something or a neutral something, because it can’t be a good something. If it was a good something, she’d admit to it outright, not play this ‘I’m bored’ card as hard as she is.

“I…Okay,” I agree finally. “Gimme a minute.” I walk upstairs and pull on my old Converse, scuffed and worn and dirtied. I don’t have socks, and I hope she doesn’t notice.

If she does, she doesn’t say anything, just smiles and leads me out to her waiting car.

I decide, as we drive through LA, that I like Breezy Weekes, even if she was a little pushy about convincing me to come with her, even if she’s trying to pull something that I’m not sure if I’ll approve of it. She’s nice, doesn’t push for more elaborate responses than my one-word answers. She chatters to fill space, turns on the radio for background noise. She’s genuine, and as far as I can tell, not doing this because she thinks I deserve better than I’ve got.

We pull up to a strip mall and she parks. I look out the windshield at the different shops. Half of them I’ve never heard of, the other half I know are expensive as fuck. “Um…” I say articulately.

“I need opinions,” she explained. “And an impulse control. I’ve got too many shoes as it is.”

“Um,” I repeat. I don’t really know what else to say, and I still don’t know where this is going. “I’m not really good at—”

“You’re probably better than Dallon is,” she cuts me off with a laugh. “He either tells me I look great in everything I try on, or tells me I don’t need any more of whatever it is I’m trying on.”

“Well,” I say slowly, not sure of exactly how to respond to that, “you probably do look great in everything, and you also probably don’t need more. And I really am terrible at fashion opinions, I’m just a jeans from Walmart and shirts from Hot Topic, sometimes Suncoast, kind of person.”

She laughs again. “Well, then this’ll be a much more entertaining venture than originally planned, won’t it?” She steps out of the car, effectively removing any chance I have of not going into those stores. I climb out too, taking a deep breath as I stick my hands in my pockets.

The clothes in the first store we enter are bright colors and soft fabrics, and it’s ridiculous how high quality they look. I recognize a few designers’ names, and I note that they’re all higher quality than anything that I, on my poor-person/college-student budget could ever hope to even _touch_ , much less own.

For the most part, I just watch Breezy look through the shelves and tell her (basic and uninformed) opinions on the things she tries on. Mostly it’s mundane opinions, like “which color looks better?” or “these jeans with this top, or _those_ jeans with _that_ top?” (They both look exactly the same what the fuck?). Until about three stores in, when Breezy finds a pale green sundress and holds it out to me.

“Uh…It’s very pretty?” I say, assuming she’s just asking me for my opinion, like she’s been doing the past two hours.

Breezy nods. “It is! And it’s perfect for your skin tone!”

“My what?” Where’s she going with this? Is she going to make me try it on? Fuck, is she going to try and _buy_ it for me? I don’t need new clothes, I’m _fine_ what the fuck?

“Come on, try it on, please?”

* * *

 

When she drops me back off at Brendon’s house, I have six bags of clothes, each article costing more than the house I lived in back in NC, and I am _fuming._ I hid it well, and I’m pretty sure Breezy just thinks I was a bit annoyed because I don’t like trying on clothes (which is also true). I just think it’s a very funny coincidence that Brendon’s been insisting that I need some more clothes, and suddenly Breezy Weekes shows up, takes me shopping, and buys me new clothes.

And Brendon’s just _sitting_ there, drinking his beer and watching something on the TV. “Oh, hey,” he says with a smile, and I can fucking _see_ the smug look in his eyes. The fucker thinks he’s won.

“That was the _single_ most _underhanded_ thing, most _unbelievable_ thing that I have _ever_ seen,” I hiss at him, dropping the bags on the ground and storming up the steps. I’m over exaggerating, because recruiting one of the band wives to buy me some new clothes was fucking _mild_ compared to most everything Dustin’s ever pulled, but I’m so _furious_ at the trick that it doesn’t even matter.

“Kairi, hold up!” Brendon calls. I figure he’s getting up and following me, so I just start walking faster. The good thing about a big, expensive house is that the doors have locks.

I get into my room and slam the door, turning the lock as soon as I do. Almost immediately, he starts pounding on the door. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I just—”

“What, you think I fucking _care_?” I snap back at him. “I didn’t fucking _need_ new clothes!” I move away from the door and climb up onto the bed.

“Kairi, please, I’m really fucking sorry. I just…You’ve got _three_ pairs of jeans, and it’s fucking _summer_ , in _California_.” He’s silent for a moment, and I almost start to think that he left. Until, “Please, just open the door.”

“ _Fuck off_ ,” I call out venomously, rolling over and clutching one of the pillows (why the fuck are there three, for fuck’s sake).

* * *

 

Never let it be said that Brendon Urie is not a persistent little shit. He seems to have a gotten a few days off, and spends all of that time asking me to come out, asking me to at least _talk_ to him, or at the very least asking me to _eat_ something. My stomach’s rumbling again, and I’ve been getting real meals often enough long enough that it’s actually bothering me again. And that right there is almost enough to make me give in and open the door. Almost. But not quite.

Because Brendon Urie may be a persistent little shit, but I was taught the art of stubbornness by the fucking _master_. So I have no problems sitting in here and starving, losing what little weight I’ve put on, just to prove to Brendon that I am _exceptional_ at holding grudges.

Besides, at least this time I’ve got air conditioning, and a soft bed, and I’m not going to die of heat stroke or sun poisoning. Starvation, probably, but not from the heat.

“Will you at least tell me _which_ aspect of this has you refusing to come out?” Brendon asks finally. He’s been mostly silent today, but I’m pretty sure he’s been sitting outside the door, just waiting for it to open. I don’t answer him, but this time it’s not because I’m resolutely giving him the silent treatment. It’s because I’m not exactly sure of the answer. I know why I’m angry—I told him I didn’t need new clothes, so he recruited Breezy Weekes to take me shopping and by me new clothes. But I don’t know if that pisses me off because he tricked me, and I’ve never been able to put up with people who pull shit like that, or if it’s because I am not a charity case and I fucking _hate_ freebies. All the money that Breezy spent on my new clothes could have paid our fucking rent for _years_. It could have bought my mom a real fucking house, not some fucking _trailer_. Brendon thinks it’s some kind of marvel, me only having three pairs of jeans? Fuck, that’s more than I had back home. Back home I had exactly _one_ pair.

“Okay. I’m sorry I pulled Breezy into this. I’m sorry that I asked her to get you new clothes when you didn’t want them. I just…Kairi, I just wanted to help. Can’t you just let me at least _try_?”

And fuck if that’s not enough to make me actually, legitimately consider opening the door—less to let him apologize and more to kick him or yell at him. ‘Wanted to _help_?’ What’s he think he’s been doing lately? Fucking _teasing_ me?

“I don’t need any more of your fucking _charity_ ,” I call out petulantly. “So just leave me the fuck alone.”

He might say something else, but I can’t hear him through the door. “All right, how about this. This is clearly something we need to talk about. Actually _talk_ , face to face. So all I’m asking is that you open the door, so we can actually discuss this. Please?”

I may be stubborn, may have been taught stubbornness by someone more immovable than the Great Wall of China, but I also know when enough is enough. I’m starving, and I’m starting to think I’m pretty much stuck with this insufferable lead singer of Panic!, so I slowly pull myself up to open the door.

Brendon’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, and he looks pretty fucking surprised that I opened the door. He seems to shake himself out of it, standing quickly and enveloping me in a tight embrace. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” He pulls himself away from me, and places a hand on either side of my face. “Listen to me, Kairi. You are not a charity case. I’m not helping you because it’ll make me feel better about myself. I am helping you because…” He stops. He looks like he’s trying to find the right words, a way to say it that would make me believe him.

“Because I looked like I _needed_ it,” I hiss coolly.

He sighs. “All right. Okay. Yes. Yes, that was my original reason,” he agrees. “But now it’s got nothing to do with what you need.”

“Then _what_?” I demand, my voice eerily calm. “What is it _now_?”

“Kairi, you’ve been to hell and back. I am trying to give you a fucking _break_ , because you fucking _deserve_ it.”

That’s it. That’s my breaking point. I shove him away from me and step back, slamming the door in his face. “You don’t get to decide what I deserve,” I tell him through the door. “You don’t fucking _know_ what I’ve done. I deserve _worse_.”

I ignore his protests as I bypass my bed entirely and look out the window. I’m pretty far up, but I could probably climb out if I really wanted to. The only question is where I would go from here. North? I could go up to Oregon, or maybe even Washington.

I could go to Spokane. My grandfather’s from Spokane. A family tie I don’t have to run from, because I can’t remember him ever doing anything so abhorrently wrong. Granted, I can barely remember anything about him at all; I was only five when he died.

Suddenly, the door opens, and I freeze. “When are you going to understand?” Brendon breathes. “Whatever it is you’ve done, it doesn’t make you some terrible person, who deserves to have to fight to survive. You don’t deserve the bare minimum required to live.”

“You can’t _say_ that,” I say dully. “Not if you don’t _know_.” Because if he doesn’t know, they’re just empty words, crafted specifically to comfort me. A blank sort of assurance that does absolutely nothing for me, because I’ve heard the likes of it so many times. But as soon as he knows, as soon as he finds out what I’ve done, he’ll rescind his words. He’ll realize that I deserve so much more than I’ve already gotten, that the hell I endured in those two months only just touched how bad it _should_ get.

“Then _tell_ me,” he snaps suddenly. “Tell me what the fuck it is that you think is so _terrible_ , so that maybe when I tell you that you deserve better, you’ll actually fucking _believe_ me.”

I spin around to face him, actually meeting his eyes willingly for the first time since I got here. “Except you _won’t_ be telling me that!” I try to blink back the tears blurring my vision. “Sure, maybe you’ll let me stay. I believe that you won’t kick me out into the streets, all right? But you sure as hell won’t be telling me that I’m a good fucking person, or that I deserve anything better than fucking _walking_ across the country!”

Brendon freezes. I can see the gears turning in his mind grind to a halt, before spinning furiously. “You…Kairi, you _walked_ here?” It pieces together in his head, the state he found me in. The too-tan, sunburnt skin. My extreme hyperthermia, my dazed way of speaking. Why my clothes were torn and stained, even after being washed.

I nod hesitantly. “I walked to Raleigh, caught a bus to Chicago, walked down to someplace on the Eastern side of the Rockies, caught a bus across, then walked the rest of the way here.”

He starts shaking his head fervently. “No. No, you can’t be telling me this. And you think that’s not _enough_ of a fucking _punishment_?”

Those words just make me kind of… _break_. I sink down to the ground, wrapping my arms around my knees. “I just…I really fucked up. I fucked _everything_ up.”

I don’t react to Brendon’s arms wrapping around me protectively. “I’m the only remaining original member of my band, and I’m divorced,” he murmurs softly. “I know a little about thinking I fucked up enough to warrant some self-destruction.”

“My brother, Dustin,” I whisper hoarsely. I don’t really know why I’m telling him this, but that little filter between my brain and my mouth seems to be out of commission. “He had some pretty bad anger issues. Kept blowing up over the most ridiculous things. And…every time he did, something in me broke. I left home because there was only one thing left in me to break, and I don’t really think I need to tell you what that was.”

His arms tighten around me, and I feel him press a careful kiss to the top of my head. “That’s why you were desperate to leave,” he whispers. “Not why you’re being a glutton for punishment.”

I take a shuddering breath. “Dustin, he has a son. A beautiful baby boy, Tristan. I love him more than anything. But Tristan’s mother, Rachel…She and Dustin broke up. And Dustin…He didn’t take it very well, and he didn’t even bother trying to take care of him that summer. So I did. I took care of Tristan more than either of his parents did.” I take a shuddering breath. “Dustin had this thought, I think it’s been there since he found out Rachel was pregnant, but he had this thought that he wasn’t going to be good enough. And…That was the problem. Because I told him he was. I really _believed_ he was. But…God, I was so fucking _terrified_ for Tristan. So as much as I told him that he was good enough, that he was going to be able to take care of his son _just fine_ …I called Social Services. And I know for a fact that, as far as State’s concerned, _neither_ parent is good enough to take care of him.” There’s no tears, surprisingly. I’m more just…numb. I guess I just really needed to say it, get it out there.

And now that he knows…Fuck, now that he knows, I remember why I hadn’t wanted to tell him in the first place. I can’t breathe, I’m too afraid that he’ll move, that he’ll get up and shut my door. That I’ll only be allowed to stay until I can stand on my own, but he’ll be rushing me to get to that point. And I realize now that I don’t want that. Because I’ve felt _safe_ here. I can’t be touched here, by my family, by Dustin. I’ve never felt safer than I do right here, and I’ve let myself give that up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY there's something wrong with my computer, so I had to do this on a library computer. I totally planned for this to be an every-Sunday thing. I swear I'll try not to let that happen again, most of this is already prewritten. Please let me know what you think though, I really hope this was worth the wait.


	5. And I Meant Everything I Said That Night

I’m not surprised when Brendon draws his arms away from me, but I whimper from the loss of contact anyway. I don’t deserve his comfort, his protection, and I _know_ that. But knowing that I don’t deserve it doesn’t change that fact that I _want_ it, _crave_ it. I’m _yearning_ for it, for this thing I can’t ever have. I lied to my brother, and I took away the one thing that ever made him act absolutely _human_. Ripped it away with no consideration for him whatsoever.

What does surprise me is the sensation of a thick quilt getting wrapped tightly around me and a hand carding through my hair.

I look up at Brendon blearily, my vision clouded with unshed tears. “I don’t…”

“I told you,” he murmurs, tugging the blanket around me tighter. “I told you that it doesn’t _matter_ what you’ve done, you deserve better.”

“But I—”

“Did what you had to do,” he interrupts gently. “You did what you had to do. Kairi, you were worried about your nephew. You did what was best for him. And you really, _really_ didn’t deserve all this bullshit.”

“I _destroyed_ my brother,” I protest weakly. “I took away the only thing he actually cared about.”

“Well, from what you’ve told me, you didn’t really have much of a choice.” Brendon sighs, shifting just a tiny bit. He wraps his arms back around me and picks me up. I try not to think about how light I must be to him. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow, okay?” he sets me down on the bed and kisses my forehead. I haven’t had someone try so hard to comfort me since the summer before my sophomore year of college, before my best friend went off to join the military.

“Or never,” I mumble into my pillow, curling into a fetal position. “Never’s good.”

* * *

 

When I wake up in the morning, it takes me a few minutes to remember everything that happened last night. After that, it takes me a whole other _hour_ before I’m feeling up to actually going downstairs and facing him again. But I can’t hide from him now, especially knowing that he’s got a master key, and he’s probably beyond the point of simply giving me my privacy. So I slowly climb out of bed and down into the kitchen.

Brendon’s on Periscope, talking about something to do with Disney movies. He glances up at me, so briefly that there’s no way the people watching the ‘Scope noticed (and even if they did, it’d be dismissed as over-analyzing), and makes up a pretty solid excuse for why he has to leave and thanking them for hanging with him.

He straightens up and turns to me. “How are you feeling?” he asks softly. I can tell he’s treading softly, trying to keep it light.

I shrug. “Been better. Been worse.”

He nods. “I can’t even _dream_ of coming close to knowing what you’ve been through,” he admits carefully, leaning against the counter. “But I need you to talk to me. You’ve got to tell me what you need. I meant it, I want to help. That’s _all_ I want to do.”

I look at him—genuinely _look_ at him. His sleep-rumpled hair, with its dozens of cowlicks, his wide, earnest eyes behind black-framed glasses, the sincere set of his jaw and his shoulders. I take all of it in and realize something _crucial_.

I believe him. I was so _terrified_ of being judged for what I’ve done, for so cruelly tearing apart my family, that I never once considered that he wouldn’t _care_. (Not that I’m wholly convinced that he doesn’t, just that he doesn’t care _enough._ ) And now, here he is, just wanting to make sure that I’m okay, even after everything.

“I think…” I pause, actually trying to think about what it is I need. “I think I just need time. I just need to come to terms with everything.”

He nods slowly. “Time. I can do that.” He grins at me suddenly, grabbing a plate off the stove. “But you also need food, and I can definitely do that.” He’s right, of course. I really, _really_ need to eat something at this point. “So, Breezy kind of really wants to see you again.”

I blink up at him. “Is there a pass option?” I ask meekly. I don’t have that much of a problem with her, she really was incredibly nice, once I got past the way she tricked me into letting her buy me an obnoxious amount of overpriced clothes. I just didn’t want her to trick me into letting her buy me an obnoxious amount of overpriced anything else.

He laughs lightly. “It’d just be dinner,” he assures me. “Breezy, Dallon, and the kids. No shopping involved.”

I nod after a moment. “I think I can handle that,” I say finally. So long as nobody asks me why I’m eating so little, I’ll be fine.

Brendon nods. “I’ll let Dallon know.” He studies me, as if he’s trying to gauge something. “If I leave to go to the studio, you’re not going to run off on me, are you?”

I shake my head. “No. No, I’m not.” For the first time since I got here, I’m genuinely not considering it.

* * *

 

I almost don’t notice my phone ringing. It hasn’t done that in weeks, I’d almost forgotten it could. The number flashing is unfamiliar, but the area code is one for back home. That’s almost enough to make me decline the call and go back to ~~finally~~ unloading the clothes I got on my ~~unwanted~~ shopping trip with Breezy, but curiosity wins out. I just hope that I don’t end up being the cat it kills.

“Hello?” I almost don’t even remember how to answer the phone, it’s that bad.

There’s silence on the other end for a second or two, before I hear music float through the speaker. It’s so tinny I can barely identify the instrument, and I can’t identify the song until the vocals start up.

_He’s been sittin’ by the phone since she left…_

I tap the ‘end call’ icon and stagger back a couple steps, dropping my phone on the floor. I still don’t know who it was, who the _hell_ thought it’d be funny to do that, but I can’t even bring myself to care about it. It’s one thing for Brendon, who’s seeing this whole thing as a somewhat-objective third party, to tell me that I can stay here no matter what I did back in Carolina. But for _anyone_ still in Carolina, who doesn’t actually _know_ , to tell me that it doesn’t matter what I’ve done, just come back? It’s cruel. It’s taunting.

I’m not going home. I’m here. I’m in LA. And I’m going to stay in LA, because it was hard enough to get to this point once, and I can’t go anywhere else, to live in fear that every single person I meet will think I’m some terrible person because of what I’ve done.

And Brendon. I _promised_ him that I’d stay, and so now I _have_ to, because if I don’t, if I break this promise too, then I’ll be broken myself. I promised Dustin he was good enough, and I promised Tristan that I’d always be there for him, and I promised so many people so many things, but it seems the only promise I’ve kept was the promise to my mother that if Dustin lost his temper again that I would leave. And the price of keeping that one was to break all my others.

If I leave here, now, then there will be no way of convincing myself that it’s not running. That it’s not quitting. And if there’s one thing that I know, better than _anything_ else, it is to never, no matter what, simply _give up_.

The phone rings again, from its spot on the floor. I look down at it, the same number on the screen. I turn and walk out of the room, shutting the door and muting that insufferable marimba sound behind me.

I walk into the living room and sit on the armchair that I have as good as claimed as mine, turning on the Xbox and opening Netflix. I don’t know what I want to watch right now, only that I need something to offset that niggling guilt in the back of my head. Except…

Except now it’s playing in my head, that song that the person in NC tried to play for me. It’s a song I haven’t heard in years, and I don’t really remember all that much about it, only that the chorus is a father telling his daughter that he still loves her, and that he only wants her to come home. But I _can’t_. Even before all this, even before this powder keg, I was always going to leave. I’ve always been such a coward, always known that I would run from my past, and now I’m _out_ and there’s no fucking way that I am _ever_ going back.

I’m so lost in thought that I don’t even know what show I selected, don’t notice as four episodes play through, only realize that time has, in fact, been marching on when the door opens and Brendon comes in and wraps his arms around me tightly and mutters “you stayed” over and over again.

It startles me out of my thoughts, catches me off guard enough that I actually give an uneasy sort-of laugh. “I told you I wasn’t going to leave,” I remind him, trying to wiggle out of his hold.

“I know, but you weren’t answering your phone.”

Oh. Whoops. “Must have left it upstairs,” I mumble, reaching up and pulling his arms away from me. “Still not used to it going off.” It’s true, of course, but it’s definitely not why it’s sitting on the floor of my room, probably telling me I’ve got dozens of missed calls.

Brendon nods, like he understands. He probably thinks he does. “I was just…”

“Worried,” I finish for him. I don’t blame him, _can’t_ blame him. I probably would be too. “It’s okay,” I add, because he looks like he’s about to start beating himself up for not trusting me to keep my word. I’m already wallowing in guilt, and nothing good can come from _both_ of us playing that game. “Brendon, I promise, I’m not upset.”

“I should have trusted you,” he argues. I realize that this must be how I’ve been acting since I got here, stubbornly refusing to be comforted, and now I feel even worse. “You promised you’d stay. I should have believed you.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” I say firmly. “A week ago the words would have been empty.” I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I realize as I say the words that they’re mostly accurate. I take a deep breath and wrap my arms around his torso. It’s the first time I’ve initiated the hug, and I feel him relax as he returns the gesture. “Thank you,” I murmur into his chest.

“For…what, specifically?”

For saving me. For caring about me. For believing in me. For listening to me. For making me feel human again.

“For everything.”

* * *

 

It’s ridiculous, and I’m fully aware of it. It there’s one thing I’ve always been good for, it’s that I’m self-aware. But whether it’s ridiculous or not, I’m extremely nervous.

It’s just dinner, I remind myself firmly. Just dinner. Dallon won’t judge, Breezy won’t judge. Nobody will judge. It’s just dinner. I know that, I say the words over and over, but I can’t help myself. Even before everything that’s happened, I had mild social anxiety. I’ve never liked meeting new people. No matter how irrational it may have been, I’ve always had minor meltdowns when I was about to be introduced to a stranger.

“Kairi, are you okay?” Brendon calls concernedly from where he’s sitting at the piano, softly playing out some random chords.

“Yeah, I just…” I take a deep breath. “I’ll be fine,” I say finally. It’s not a lie, exactly. I’m sure I will be fine, once they show up. I’m just not quite there yet. I can feel Brendon’s eyes on me, though, can feel the unspoken _Are you sure? Absolutely sure?_ so I stand up and join him on the piano bench. “I just don’t do well with meeting new people, I guess,” I mumble, staring down at the piano keys. It sounds so silly, saying it out loud.

Brendon bumps his knee against mine, prompting me to look up at him. He offers me a small, reassuring smile. “Can’t say I’m surprised,” he whispers. “Just try and relax, all right?” It hadn’t occurred to me that he can feel how tense I am, sitting this close.

I nod minutely, trying to coach my muscles into easing up, using that old guard/dance trick of ‘cutting your strings’ and letting myself go all floppy. It doesn’t work.

I feel a hand run along my spine a couple times, and I don’t even register it as I go completely boneless. I’d forgotten that I did that, a totally unconscious reflex to the action. “That works,” I sigh contentedly. It’s the first time I’ve felt this relaxed in _years._

I hear Brendon chuckle as he retracts his hand. “That was unexpected.” I shoot a sideways glare up at him, but can’t be bothered to actually _move_. I need to relax more often, this feels _amazing_.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t last much longer; the doorbell rings not even a minute later and I tense up all over again. Brendon runs a hand along my spine again as he stands to greet his bandmate and his family.

“Stop exploiting my reflexes,” I call after him.

“No, it’s fun!”

“It’s bullying!”

“Brendon is a bully, I thought you’d have figured that by now.”

I look up just in time to see Brendon slug Dallon playfully in the shoulder. “I only bully you,” he huffs, before introducing me to everyone.

“Well, from the sounds of it, you’re bullying Kairi, too,” Dallon points out to Brendon, shooting me a sly grin.

“Uncle Brendon’s not a bully,” Dallon’s daughter, Amelie, argues, rushing forward and tackling Brendon’s legs. The familiarity of it comes like a kick to the chest; Tristan’s older half-sisters used to do that to Dustin all the time. That thought brings in another, even harder kick. _How had I let myself forget about them_?

“Yes, he is,” Dallon argues, completely oblivious to the way I’ve totally shut down. “He picks on me all the time, how do you miss it?”

“Well, he’s really nice to me!” she shoots back, letting go of Brendon’s legs so she can put her hands on her hips and stick her tongue out.

“That’s because you’re cuter than he is,” Brendon whispers conspiratorially. He shoots a glance at me, and I know he can see the turn my mind’s taken. I know he’ll ask me once the Weekes family leaves. I don’t know how I feel about that.

“Don’t listen to him, he’s lying,” Dallon says seriously, looking down at his daughter fondly. I start breathing in that stilted, uneven way that shifts your fight-or-flight response, makes your mind settle. Inhale four, hold seven, exhale eight. The atmosphere that they brought in, the camaraderie that only comes with a family like this one, makes my throat close up and I _miss_ this, _need_ this like I need air and I need _Tristan_ even more.

“Anyone over six feet automatically loses all cuteness,” Brendon counters, and I can do this. I can act normal and pretend that I’m not suffocating on the absence of _love_ , this family-style love that I gave up without realizing _what_ I was giving up.

“That’s not true,” I cut in, very proud of myself for masking the tightness in my throat. “Jared Pada-moose-man is extremely adorable, and he’s a moose.”

The lighthearted laughs that greet my words help ease the tension in my throat, my chest, my everywhere. I can do this, I tell myself firmly. It’s just dinner.

* * *

 

I decide, almost immediately, that I kind of, sort of, _really_ love the Weekes children. Amelie’s just this adorable ball of energy, and she kind of reminds me of myself, if I’m being honest. She takes to me like a house on fire, and it makes Dallon and Breezy both laugh. Knox, on the other hand, is shyer, and he spends a lot of time trying to hide behind his father’s legs (not that it’s difficult, Dallon’s even taller than Graham, Christ), but by about halfway into dinner he’s smiling tentatively at me.

“Hey, you wanna tell Uncle Bren where you fell asleep yesterday?” Dallon prompts Knox, an easy smile on his face.

“The washing machine,” he mumbles, and I swear he is the cutest kid not related to me that I’ve ever met.

“Like, _in_ the washing machine?” Brendon’s grinning, and the glances he keeps shooting me are growing less worried with every minute. “Or on top?”

“Brendon, how is he going to get _in_ the washing machine?” Dallon demands lightheartedly.

“My brother hid in a washing machine once,” I offer. “My mom helped him get in.”

I’m met with a few confused stares and a giggle from Amelie. “Why’d he hide in the washing machine?” she asks, still giggling excitedly.

“We were playing hide-and-seek,” I explain. “Needless to say, he won, especially since I was It and my other brother was in the middle of the hallway behind a toy sword.” That image, the one of Dustin crouched down in the middle of our tiny hallway, trying to hide behind Graham’s shitty plastic sword that was already most of the way broken. That’s an image I’ll always keep, always enjoy.

Because that Dustin, that’s my brother. He would do anything for me, protect me to the ends of the Earth. That Dustin would never make me scratch, or break my hand punching things with no give, and he sure as hell wouldn’t make me cut.

I loved that Dustin. I still do.

“So Kairi’s brother hid in a washing machine,” Brendon surmises, and I can feel his gaze on me now. I realize that I’ve just willingly offered up information about my older brother, to a family of near-perfect strangers. The thought doesn’t make me want to run off and hide. “And Knox fell asleep on top of one.”

“It’s not even the weirdest place he’s fallen asleep!” Amelie adds gleefully. “Daddy found him in the kitchen cupboard last week!”

“It was comfy,” Knox mumbles, crossing his arms petulantly. My heart melts. I really miss my nieces. And Tristan. _Fuck_ , I miss Tristan.

“Aren’t there, like, pots and pans in the kitchen cupboard?” I ask.

Breezy nods. “He took all of them out.”

“Yeah, that’s a little strange,” Brendon declares.

I snort. “Dude, that’s nothing,” I say before I can stop myself and actually _think_ about what I’m about to say. “Dustin slept on top of our _car_ one night.”

“I…your _car_?” Breezy repeats. Brendon and Dallon look just as confused, while Amelie and Knox have opted for ignoring the ‘grown up conversation’ entirely.

I nod. “Yeah, apparently it was cooler outside, or something?” I’m a little hazy on the details, but I know that Dustin was sleeping on our couch, we didn’t have central air, and the AC we had was absolute crap. “He just…grabbed his pillow and blanket, went outside, climbed on top of the car, and went to bed. Mom woke up to one of our neighbors asking if he was okay.”

“I’m assuming the answer was _no_ ,” Brendon says after a moment.

“This is the same brother who hid behind a plastic sword and apologized for breaking his phone when he got hit by a _car_ ,” I tell them with a laugh. “He was _never_ right in the head.”

I don’t mention how it’s also the same brother who punched holes in the walls and threw things and nearly got his son caught in the crossfire. I don’t need to for Brendon to know that those things are there too. Dallon and Breezy just don’t need to know in general.

The rest of dinner passes in a haze of jokes and tour stories from Brendon and Dallon. I’m actually kind of sad to see them go, I haven’t had this much fun since graduation. I sit down in my armchair, feeling so much better than I have in what feels like forever.

Brendon sits down on the sofa, and he kind of looks like he’s arguing with himself, trying to decide if he wants to ask the questions I _saw_ his mind form, and how to ask them at all. I wonder if I should prompt him, or if I should just let him fight with himself.

“You know, it’s been almost two months since we met,” he says finally, and that’s not at all where I expected that to go. “I should have introduced you to Amelie and Knox sooner, I guess.”

“Brendon, what do you--?”

He looks up at me, then, dark brown eyes meeting my lighter (still brown) ones. “You talked about Dustin tonight.”

“I, ah…I’m not really sure that was entirely the _kids_ ,” I admit after a moment. “It’s…” And I’ve never tried to say this out loud to anyone before, I’m not sure if I even know _how_. “I have a lot of funny stories about Dustin,” I settle on, turning my glance to the floor. “He was a _really_ funny person. And…” I sigh, leaning back into the chair. “I love my brother, Brendon,” I tell him. “I mean, I really fucking _love_ my brother. I love that giant nerd, who fell asleep on top of the car and tried to hide behind a toy sword, I _do_. But he’s not that giant nerd anymore, and _that’s_ what hurts about this whole thing. Because that brother would have made a hell of a great father, you know?”

After a moment, Brendon nods. “It hurts, to see someone change like that.” I remember, suddenly, that he’s no stranger to the way people can change, the way you can love them one day, and then never speak to them again.

And then, out of nowhere, I remember how Brendon started this conversation. “Wait, what’s the date?”

His brow furrows in total confusion. “Uh…the 26th, for another hour. Why?”

My eyes widen as I spew out some excuse on why I have to go to bed _right now_. I don’t even know what I’m saying, and I know Brendon doesn’t buy it for a minute, but I can’t let myself be bothered by it, because I need to fall asleep within the next _hour_ , or I’m not getting any sleep at all.

Because on the 27th, just like clockwork, my head will become a personal hell that I can’t escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm actually not very proud of this one, I'm not gonna lie. When I wrote it the first time, it was great, but then my computer crashed and I lost it. I'm not very happy with the rewrite. Also, it was kinda filler-y, but i guess that was bound to happen eventually. Next chapter something else comes out, and it's not gonna be pretty. Just so you know.


	6. You Have Set Your Heart on Haunting Me Forever

In retrospect, it was entirely my fault for not paying more attention. I had let myself relax, ignore the dates of the days as they passed. I wonder if I wouldn’t have noticed, if I hadn’t asked. Then I remember when I was fifteen, and it was my grandfather, and I just had no inclination to so much as get out of bed, and yeah. Yeah, I’d have noticed.

“Kairi?”

I don’t answer, don’t even look up as Brendon sits down on the couch and looks up at the TV. It’s some paid programming thing, I didn’t bother paying attention. I don’t need to _watch_ anything, I just need to _hear_ it. Because if I didn’t hear the TV, if I didn’t hear _something_ , then I could hear _it_. Over and over and over, playing on repeat, those words and that sound, those words and that sound, those words and that—

“You were in a huge rush to go to bed, earlier,” Brendon whispers sleepily, and I wonder what woke him up in the middle of the night. “Why are you in my living room at three in the morning?”

I shrug, because it’s all I’ve got the energy to do.

“Kairi,” Brendon says again, and I’d look at him if I wasn’t so _exhausted_. It’s not even that I’m physically tired—actually, it’s the opposite, I’m _wired_. But mentally, _emotionally_ , I’m so worn out that it’s a struggle to _breathe_. “Is this…about your brother?” I shake my head, still looking down. “Is it okay if I turn the TV off at least?” He’s changing the subject. I’m kind of glad. “It doesn’t look like you’re watching it.”

I shake my head again, harder this time, but still barely at all.

“Can I ask _why_?” His voice is soft, and I’d probably start getting kind of irritated if the roles were reversed. Seriously, I’m pretty sure I’m harder to talk to than a brick wall—in this state, at least.

“Because…” I trail off, because finding words means poking around in my head, and poking around in my head means dwelling on the _sound,_ because they’re connected to each other. “Please,” I settle on finally, knowing it’s not enough of an answer, but hoping that he’ll drop it.

“Kairi, talk to me.” I hear something shift, and he’s sitting in front of me, directly in my line of sight. “I’m begging you.”

“I just…” I shake my head again, because I just heard _it_ , just let it get through as I was trying to find the words to tell him why I _needed_ to have the TV, the background noise. And then, “I’ll be fine. You should go back to sleep.”

Brendon shakes _his_ head, at that. “If I go back to sleep, I’m turning the TV off and taking the remote with me. I know I’ve got money, but I don’t need my TV running all night if you aren’t even watching it.”

“Sound,” I mumble finally, hoping it gets the point across. Judging from the look on Brendon’s face, it doesn’t. “Need sound.”

Comprehension dawns on his face at that. “Head’s too loud?”

I nod, because that may not be exactly true, but it’s close enough. Close enough to the truth, the way that my brain remembers that sound like I only heard it five minutes ago, like I _just_ heard it seconds ago, and not at all the way that it should be after three years (three years isn’t actually a lot of time). My brain remembers and I don’t want to. My brain plays it and I don’t want to listen. So I play the TV, latch onto the spokesperson talking about how fantastic these knives are, listen to him so hard that I can almost pretend my brain isn’t remembering at all ( ~~it doesn’t work all too well but it works well enough~~ ).

“Is there anything else for it?” he asks me, breaking me out of that train of thought. “Like, I dunno, music, or something?”

“Music makes it worse.” Because it does. Music is reflexive, music makes me think. I’m trying _not_ to think, that’s the key here. That’s my game.

“So music makes it worse, and the TV’s wasting power…” Brendon trails off thoughtfully. “Got it.” He reaches over, grabs the remote, and flicks off the TV. Before I can protest, he turns back to me and launches into a story about Dallon, Kenny, and a forty-page joke.

“Brendon, what are you doing?” I interrupt, because I’m confused.

“I like to think I’m more interesting than a guy talking about knives,” he explains, without skipping a beat. “You need something to listen to. So listen to me.”

“But isn’t Reading and Leeds in a few days?” I don’t know why exactly I’m arguing this, except maybe that I’m still, after all this time, reluctant to accept his help. “You’re going to talk yourself hoarse.”

He shrugs. “So I’ll go on vocal rest and drink lots of water. It’s a few days, I’ll recover.” He stands and moves back to the couch, making a lot of noise as he does. I swear he’s trying to wake the dead. “I’m going to keep talking, Kairi. The only question is: am I going to keep talking about Dallon’s forty-page retelling of the twelve-inch pianist?”

I finally muster up the energy to look up at him, settle myself deeper into the chair to become comfortable. “Go for it,” I answer, and I think that might have almost been a _smile_ on my face.

Brendon finishes the story, and immediately launches into a new one. He talks until sunrise, and if he ever finds himself at a loss for words, he whistles loudly and drums his hands on his thighs, keeping a careful eye on me for signs that it’s not enough.

He’s in the middle of one of these breaks when I realize: I _trust_ him. I trust Brendon Urie, more than I’ve ever trusted anyone, even my best friend, even Kaycee and Adrian, and he deserves to _know_. He deserves to know what happened, and not just the abbreviated version that everybody else knows.

“I had a babysitter,” I start, and he stops drumming and whistling immediately. “When I was a kid. His name was Rick. My mom was a single mom, with three kids, so she worked a lot. She had to, to keep us alive.” I don’t go into the details of where my dad was, because that’s a whole other story. “We spent a lot of time over at Rick’s. Dustin…he didn’t really like him that much. He was about ten when he started watching us, and ten-year-olds think they’re too old for babysitters. But me and Graham…we were _young_ , we were _tiny_ , and…We spent a _lot_ of time at Rick’s.” I’m not really making sense, I don’t think. “He was like a father to us. He even took me to a father-daughter dance when I was in kindergarten.” Again, not getting into where my dad was, or why he didn’t take me.

“Except…He was sick. And I mean, _really_ sick. Injured? He ah…he was shot, around the time I was born. Five times.” Brendon sucks in a breath, and I almost laugh. He thinks _that’s_ the worst of it? “I don’t really know how he survived, he was shot in the neck and the chest, and then there’s the blood loss from the other three wounds and….” I shrug. “People would always ask me how I could be so strongly Christian but be majoring in a science. I guess I just can’t be an atheist and still believe in miracles, and I can’t not believe in miracles if I know Rick.

“But you don’t walk out of that wholly unscathed. You shouldn’t _walk_ out of that at all, because another bullet hit his knee, and the doctors were certain he wasn’t going to walk, and he died on the table multiple times.” I remember Rick talking about it, while we were watching JAG one morning. “So he ended up with all kinds of heart complications, and breathing problems, and high blood pressure, and he had a cane. Every time he ended up in the hospital, every heart attack or stroke, I panicked. What if he doesn’t come out of this one? What if this time, when he dies, he dies for real? I went to college and I told my mom, if anything happens, call me. I want to know. And every time I’d get a text from her telling me to call, there was this…white hot _terror_ that would claw at my throat, you know?” It’s getting hard to look at Brendon, now. The floor looks much more appealing.

Because I just _know_ that this next bit is _terrible_ , and that even if he isn’t a very pitying person, hasn’t pitied me about anything I’ve told him, _this_ gets pity. It’s why nobody knows, why it’s been held so close to my chest.

“He called me, one day, my sophomore year,” I continue, trying to ignore the way my throat’s already closing up, trying to ignore the way my brain’s playing it again and again and again and again and— “He called me, and I love Rick, he was like my _father_ , and I never turned up a chance to talk to him, so of course I answered it and—” I break off, try to steady my breathing.

Brendon’s in front of me, suddenly, hands rubbing up and down my arms gently, his eyes right in front of my own. “You don’t have to keep going,” he whispers. “Not if you don’t want to.”

_But I do._ “He’d had a heart attack,” I choke out, because I actually do want him to know. Somebody has to, and I want so badly for it to be him. “He said he asked my mom not to tell me, because it was so close to my birthday, and I’d just gone back up to school, and I was confused, because why is _he_ telling me, the day _before_ my birthday? And he started talking, and he said…he said he loved me, that he always thought of me as a daughter, and he was so proud of me because I’d done so well and it just _sounded_ like goodbye, it sounded like giving up, and Rick doesn’t give up, Rick taught _me_ never to give up, and—”

Brendon’s arms wrap around me before I can really register the sobs wracking through my body. He runs his hand along my back—not my spine, like he did earlier, just my back—and shifts so that he’s in the armchair and I’m in his lap.

“He died on the phone,” I manage to get out between my sobs, and I feel the way Brendon’s body stiffens before he tightens his arms around me and starts _rambling,_ literally just stringing words together, providing me with background noise but not saying anything that makes any sense.

* * *

 

It’s not that I fell asleep like that—I mean, I actually didn’t. I was awake the entire time. Brendon had kept up his litany of randomly strung together words until somewhere around ten, but he started slurring his words so bad he had to give up and just turn the TV back on. _He_ fell asleep about fifteen minutes later, arms still wrapped around me, and…I just didn’t have the inclination to move.

Zack comes by at about noon, and he just stops and stares at the two of us on the chair. I stare back, unsure of what I should say to him, and uncertain if I’d even be able to say anything at all. My throat feels raw from all that sobbing, and I’m sure my eyes are still puffy.

“Should we wake him up?” he asks finally, pointing at Brendon. “Because it’s noon, and it kind of looks like you’re stuck.”

I shrug, because a) I don’t really mind, and b) he was up all night, talking in a steady stream of words until he couldn’t anymore.

Zack takes my shrug as an affirmative, which it wasn’t, and moves over to help me out of Brendon’s hold. I’m considering protesting, because it’s actually kind of comfortable, when my phone rings. And part of me wants to leave it, but another part of me knows that Zack will ask questions, and all of me doesn’t want that. So I climb out of Brendon’s lap and pick up my phone.

“’Lo?” I ask thickly. If Zack asks why my voice is so thick, I can just tell him that I woke up shortly before he came over ( ~~never mind the fact that I don’t look like I slept because I didn’t~~ ).

_Hey, Hai—Kairi._ See, this is why I love Graham. It’s taking him a while to get used to my new name, but he’s rolling with it. _I just…It’s the 27 th._ I can hear the way his own voice is thick, but he won’t cry because that’s just not how he copes.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Yeah, I noticed.”

_So you’re settled, then?_ He seems glad about that, at least. _I mean, if you’re some place where you know the date…_

“Yeah, I am.” It never occurred to me, before now, that I’m _settled_ here. This was supposed to be an intermediary, a pit stop before I found a place of my own. But now I’ve been here two months, and I’m not really sure Brendon’s planning on letting me move out, at this point.

Speaking of, Zack seems to be trying to wake Brendon up by playing gay chicken. I wonder if that’ll actually work.

_I…If mom calls, tomorrow…_

Tomorrow. Today sucks. Today is always one of the worst days. Tomorrow usually comes kind of close to making up for it. But there’s nobody here that knows that my birthday’s tomorrow, so tomorrow will just be like yesterday. Or maybe the day before, because yesterday was actually kind of fun.

“Yeah. I’ll answer.”

_I told her to call you Kairi. She doesn’t._

I sigh. My mom means well, but I never expected her to agree to call me something else just because I randomly decided that night in Chicago that I wanted to change my name. “Wish I could say I was surprised,” I mumble darkly. Zack’s head shoots up at my tone, and I try to shoot him a smile. He doesn’t seem to be doing so well at waking Brendon up. I watch him for a moment, before asking Graham, “How are you holding up?”

_Today or in general?_

“Both.”

_It’s three o’clock. I’m supposed to be in sociology._

“I know that feeling.” I skipped most of my classes for a week sophomore year. I almost failed Orgo because of it.

_They…they took Tristan, out of state. We don’t know where he is, and it’s going to be a closed adoption, so…_ He trails off, leaving the words unspoken. We’ll never see him again. We’ll never know where he ended up.

I never got to say goodbye.

“I’ll, um…I’ll talk to you later, kay?” I say finally, because it’s getting to be too much.

_I’ll call you tomorrow, after mom does._ There’s dead air, after that, and I lock my phone and set it back down. Zack’s taken to poking Brendon’s cheek.

“How late was he _up_?” he growls. “I mean, _fuck_.”

“Ten-thirty?” I guess. “Give or take?”

Zack stops poking Brendon. “Ten-thirty?” he repeats. “Like, an hour and a half ago?”

I nod. “There was…” I like Zack, I do. But I don’t really trust him like I trust Brendon. Zack’s funny and can make me laugh (usually). But he’s not really a tell-me-your-secrets kind of guy, so I kind of taper off when trying to explain what exactly it was that kept Brendon up until mid-morning.

He doesn’t prompt me to go further, though, and that’s something. “Well, we need to wake him up somehow, or else the jet lag’s gonna be an even bigger bitch than usual.” Suddenly, a wicked looking grin spreads across his face. “Wanna watch me throw him in the pool?” I can tell he’s suggesting it as a way to cheer me up, but I appreciate the effort from him—unlike from pretty much anyone else, who I would tell to fuck off before disappearing to mourn in peace.

“That’s just cruel,” I reply, because it really is, waking someone up by throwing them in their swimming pool, especially if they only got about an hour and a half of sleep. But then I remember how hard I laughed when we did it to one of my friends from high school, and so I add, “Let’s do it.”

Zack’s grin widens as he hefts Brendon into a fireman’s carry. Distantly, I feel a little guilty as when he doesn’t even stir—it’d be a thousand times worse if I weren’t so busy trying to keep the sound of Rick’s last breath from creeping back into my mind, but I’m still to blame for how exhausted Brendon is.

It takes a huge splash, ten seconds, and a long string of curses for Brendon to become wide awake, pulling himself out of the pool and running his hands through his dripping hair. I only just now realize he wasn’t wearing a shirt. I wonder exactly what it must have looked like to Zack.

“Morning!” Zack says cheerfully. Brendon just glares at him, then wordlessly holds out his hand, palm up. Zack’s hand flies to his pocket as he says, “Kairi told me to!”

“Wait, what?” I’m lost, and not really sure why Zack’s blaming me. It was his idea, even if I told him to go for it.

Brendon still doesn’t say anything, just stands there staring at Zack, until Zack reaches into his pocket and pulls out his cell phone and a couple joints. As soon as they’re safely in Brendon’s waiting hand, his other one comes up and pushes Zack into the pool. It’s so unexpected that it actually startles a laugh out of me. Brendon glances back with a grin on his face, and it doesn’t take too much effort to keep the small smile on my own.

“Okay,” Zack calls, hoisting himself out. “You’re up, I’m drenched, and Kairi’s laughing at me. Now what?”

“I need coffee,” Brendon declares turning and walking back into the house. “And a towel.” He looks at me carefully as I follow him through the door. “And then we could go somewhere for lunch?”

I know that I won’t be able to stomach anything, but I also know that, while my bones aren’t as prominent under my skin, I’m still severely underweight, and Brendon won’t agree to just letting me not eat. So I just shrug and nod my head, before gesturing vaguely upstairs saying, “I’ll just….go get dressed.”

“Am I just gonna be stuck in wet clothes?” I hear Zack ask as I climb up the staircase.

As soon as my door’s shut behind me, I let out a frustrated groan. The absence of Grey was bad enough last night, but I honestly don’t know what to do without the stuffed dog, or one of Rick’s old and oversized t-shirts, or at least _something_ that I can keep close today. On top of that, I can’t help but feel like I’ve failed him, a feeling that worsens every time I get called ‘Kairi.’ I know it’s a name I chose for myself, that I’m trying to make myself into a new person or something, but that’s the problem. By changing who I was, I’ve essentially given up. I quit.

I overheard a lot of things Rick would talk about. He’d always tell me not to eavesdrop on his conversations, but the truth was he was loud and more interesting than the small court shows he watched on TV. So there was a good number of times I heard him tell Adrian or Kaycee “don’t quit.” It’s how I heard most of what happened to him—the fact he was shot in one of the good neighborhoods, even though he did drive through the bad ones too; the fact he died on the table—and it’s how I learned the most important lesson of my life.

Persevere. Keep going. Never give up, never quit, never let the world know that you’ve had enough. Just keep going, because the world’s not going to let up even when you want it to. Rick was too stubborn to die when he was supposed to, I should have been stubborn enough to stick around for Tristan. And today, I’ve realized that if he was alive, I would have let him down.

I’m startled out of my reverie by a knock on the door. I crack it open, hoping to hide that I haven’t actually started changing.

It’s Zack, holding my phone out. “It rang. I tried to get up here before it stopped, but…” He trailed off with a shrug as I took the phone.

“Thanks,” I mumble, easing the door closed. I don’t bother looking at who tried to call before I’m calling back, putting it on speaker and pulling off my shirt.

_Hey, Bug._ I smile, despite the way my heart clenches at the familiar nickname.

“Hi, Kaycee.” I’m glad it’s her, because I don’t have to pretend to be better than I am. She’s just as bad as me.

_I…I’m sorry I haven’t been able to talk to you as much as I should have been,_ she mumbles, so quietly the phone barely picks it up. _But…_ There’s the sound of a deep breath, before she continues. _I know you feel terrible, about what you did. But you should know…Dad would be proud of you._

I wasn’t expecting that. If it was anyone else, I’d tell them that they’re wrong, but I can’t say that to Kaycee. She was Rick’s daughter, his _real_ daughter, she knows him better than I do.

_Actually, that time you and Graham lived with us?_ I know what she’s talking about, remember it well. _That was him. He called them._ I can’t help but feel a stab of betrayal, but I also know that we needed it. My mom needed the push to get herself together, and DSS coming in and very nearly taking us away, actually _taking us out of the house_ , was a pretty fucking good shove.

“Oh,” I say dully as I grab a random shirt. It’s strapless, but it’s hot out. It’ll be fine.

_Yeah. Oh._ There’s a beat of silence as Kaycee tries to gather her words. _So…I’m sure you’re beating yourself up, thinking you’ve disappointed him or something, but…You didn’t. You didn’t give up. You were brave, braver than we ever would have expected._

“I…Thank you.” And then, suddenly, it’s easier, somehow. “And…Kaycee, don’t you beat yourself up either. For leaving him alone.”

_Bug, I know you’re trying, but—_

“He wasn’t alone,” I cut her off. “He called me, sometime after you left. I was on the phone with him.”

There’s a heavy silence as she processes, until, _You mean…?_

I nod, even though she can’t see me. “It’s why I didn’t answer the phone for a week when mom tried to call. I knew what she was going to say, and I thought that as long as I didn’t have to hear her say it, hear it confirmed, then I could pretend it was a dream, that he’d call me and say it was a joke, and it’d be cruel, but I’d have laughed anyway out of _relief_ , but…” I take a shuddering breath. “I was there with him, Kaycee. He wasn’t alone. And trust me, you don’t want to have been there.”

_I love you, Bug,_ she says finally. _And I’m really sorry._ There’s another pause, and then, _He really would be proud of you. Be good, yeah?_

“I love you too, Kace.” She hangs up, and I just sort of stand there, staring down at the drawer that has all my pants and shorts, trying to blink the tears out of my eyes. I give up when the first one falls, grab a random pair of shorts and pull them on. I’m an emotional wreck, but I feel like I should be allowed. Just for today.

I make my way downstairs, and I get the feeling Zack and Brendon were talking about me again. Zack’s still in his wet clothes, and Brendon’s clutching his coffee mug like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. Zack’s also staring pointedly at Brendon, and I can’t help but wonder what that’s about.

Finally, Zack clears his throat. “So, Bren, ready for Reading & Leeds?” It sounds pointed, like he’s opening up for something.

Brendon sighs. “Kairi, would you like to come with us to the Reading & Leeds Festival?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends the massive information dump. There are still some more things Kairi has to tell Brendon, but a) I haven't decided what they are, and b) there's gonna be a good while before that happens.


	7. Things Have Changed For Me

It’s about nine when I wake up the next morning, a heavy weight on my chest. I blink my eyes open blearily, only to find Penny sleeping on my chest. “Dude, what the fuck?” I mumble, reaching up to rub the sleep out of my eyes. I poke the dog in the side, hoping to wake her up enough that she gets off of me. I really do wish that Brendon would stop letting his dogs into my room. “Penny, come on. Up.” She opens her eyes and lifts her head, staring at me plaintively, before she goes back to sleep. “What are you, a fucking cat?” I feel a little bad as I push her off of me, because I do hate being rude to sleeping puppies, but the alternative is not getting up.

Which isn’t an option, because apparently Brendon’s taking me to get a passport so I can go to Reading & Leeds.

Penny stares at me like I’ve betrayed her and killed her firstborn or something, but fuck it. I’m not really a dog person anyway. I climb out of bed, rubbing her belly for a moment, and leave the room. I leave the door open so she can come out whenever.

Brendon’s in the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee and tapping something on his phone. I know he’s put himself on vocal rest to recover from the whole night of talking, but he beams at me brightly enough that I can _hear_ the “good morning.” There’s something else he’s trying to say with his smile, too, but I can’t decode that. He holds up a finger before typing something out on his phone. A second later, he beckons me over to come read it.

_Happy birthday!!!!!_

I stare down at it, then look up at him. “I didn’t…”

His fingers start working furiously as I sit down across from him, settling myself in for this routine of having to wait for him to type out what he wants to say. _It was briefly mentioned_

My brow furrows as I try to figure out exactly when I said—“ _That’s_ what you got out of that?” I ask incredulously, a surprised laugh forcing its way up.

_I got everything else too don’t worry_

I stare at him, too shocked to do much else. It doesn’t even count as a “brief mention”—it was vaguely alluded to. But he heard it anyway, filed it away for later, and remembered it when it was important.

_Do you want me to pretend I didn’t know or_

He looks a bit worried now, and I shake my head. “No, no that’s not it, just…I wasn’t expecting you to pick up on that, I guess.” I smile up at him, trying to let him know that I’m all right now—or at least, kind of all right. “So the strangest thing happened this morning.”

He raises an eyebrow. _Oh?_

“I woke up, and there was a _dog_ on my chest.” My tones friendly, and he laughs at me shortly before sobering up.

_Vocal rest don’t make me laugh_

“Don’t let your dogs into my room in the middle of the night,” I counter. “I mean, they’re adorable and all, but I don’t actually like sleeping with animals.”

_But they look so pitiful_

Brendon looks like he’s _trying_ to look pitiful too, giving me wide puppy dog eyes (and here I was thinking that was just a fanfiction thing).

“I do not care if they look pitiful,” I tell him seriously. “I would prefer to not wake up to a face full of dog slobber.”

He turns his puppy dog eyes up a few notches, and I must admit. I’m impressed. I hold his gaze steadily before saying, “Not gonna work.” He juts his lower lip into a pout, and I sigh heavily. “Dude. I’ve got a nephew and his two older half-sisters. Pout at me all you want, nothing’s gonna come of it.”

He turns the corners of his mouth down into a scowl. _Fine then_

I smile innocently at him. “So, now that we’ve got that covered, what are we doing today?”

He grins broadly, holding up a finger to tell me to wait as he furiously types something on his phone. _First off, we need to get your passport taken care of so you can come to the UK w/ us then we’re gonna go do something for your birthday_

I sigh. “Brendon, you really don’t have to—” His hand covers my mouth before I can fully voice my protests. I contemplate licking it in retaliation, but nix it on account of the fact that I am a fully grown adult who—

Oh fuck it. I poke my tongue out, and am very disappointed when he doesn’t even flinch, just keeps typing something one-handed.

_Birthday. Gift._ He draws his hand away before typing something else out. _And what are you turning, five?_

“I will have you know that I am a full grown six-year-old,” I declare grandly, leaning back into the kitchen chair.

I can feel myself slipping back into my old self, the me I was before shit hit the metaphorical fan. It’s weird, how stark the difference is between me now and me just a few days ago. It’s like the only reason I’ve been so shy and withdrawn is because of the skeletons in my closet—which I _knew_ , obviously. I just didn’t expect for it to be so easy to fall back into this easy back-and-forth once everything was laid out across the table, for _Brendon fucking Urie_ to see.

_Clearly_

But he’s grinning too. I wonder what he must be thinking, seeing me go from how I was all of yesterday to who I am now, grinning and joking and reacting to the things he says like a normal person.

_So I don’t feel like making food wanna stop some place for breakfast?_

“As long as it’s not fast food, stopping somewhere sounds great.”

* * *

 

Brendon on extreme vocal rest is _weird_. And whiny, but I have a sneaking suspicion he’s downplaying that one by a fucking mile and a half so I don’t feel guilty about it _technically_ being my fault. For the most part, he’s able to keep his grin intact, but I can see how much he wants to talk in the car. While we’re stopped at a red light, he quickly types out _Tell me a story_

I look up in thought. “Like a real-life story, or one I make up on the spot, or what?”

Before he can type out his reply, the light turns green and he has to put the phone down to drive.

I think for a moment about something to talk about. I’ve got a ton of weird stories, but I usually don’t take part in them. I’m just a casual bystander for most of the crazy things my family does. “Dude, I got nothing.”

He turns his head briefly to give me a _really?_ look. I shrug defensively. “It’s not like I’m a fantastically interesting person, okay?” And sure, maybe that’s not entirely accurate, but I can’t think of anything interesting enough to talk about (and certainly nothing lighthearted enough).

Brendon starts laughing suddenly, as he turns into the parking lot of a little café. I stare at him, waiting for him to calm down. “Care to share?” I ask, when his laughter’s mostly died down.

_You are probably the single most interesting person I’ve ever met,_ he types out. _And you don’t even realize it._

I stare at him incredulously. This _motherfucking celebrity_ , who has met other _fucking celebrities_ , thinks _I’m_ the most interesting person he’s met? “Are you high?”

_Not today it’s the worst thing I could do for my voice rn_

He gives me a small smile. _You really don’t see it do you?_

“That I’m interesting? No.” I open the door and climb out of the car, and try not to be surprised when Brendon comes around and throws an arm around my shoulders.

I have to order for him, which is weird enough in and of itself. We sit down away from windows so that fans don’t just catch a glimpse of us and freak out. I don’t need a picture on Tumblr, with a billion comments sussing out who I am. (Brendon’s new girlfriend comes to mind, and I’m really not feeling like having to put up with whatever heat would come from that).

_Watcha thinkin bout_

I shrug, ripping off a piece of my bear claw and popping it in my mouth to give me time to construct an answer better than, ‘getting accosted by your rabid fanbase.’ Actually…

“Getting accosted by your rabid fanbase.” It’s a pretty solid answer.

Brendon snorts as he types out his response. _Didn’t you used to be a part of my rabid fanbase_

“I was never _rabid_ ,” I lie. I was a little rabid, but hey. We all have our flaws.

_Seriously though don’t worry about the fans they’re usually pretty cool around here_

“Well, no, that’s not…” I sigh, looking down at the table as I try to figure out how to say this. “Cool or not, they’re gonna want to know who I am, you know?”

He nods understandingly. _They were gonna have to see you eventually,_ he points out. He’s right, of course. But it was a lot less daunting when it was theoretical, when it was ages away.

We finish eating in an easy silence (thankfully without any incidents involving fans, rabid or otherwise) and stand up. Right before he starts the car, Brendon hands me his phone with a pretty lengthy message on it.

_Before we do this, you should know that FOB is going to be there._ So he does know about that. _I don’t know exactly what happened while you were in Chicago, but Patrick’s worried about you. He knows that you’re doing better, but he also knows that you weren’t in the best state when I found you. He’s not angry or even disappointed or anything, just scared. He’s glad you’re okay. But if you come with us to the UK, there’s no avoiding him. I just want to make sure you’re ready for that._

So that’s what he’d been typing up while we ate. Huh.

“I…” I take a deep breath, picking my words carefully. “He deserves an apology, at the very least. And something resembling an explanation. I would have done it sooner, asked you to call him up or something, but I was too scared. The thought terrified me.” I look up at him, meet his eyes. “It doesn’t now, though. And I’m kind of _really_ stoked about going to England.”

Brendon nods, taking his phone back. _I haven’t told him you’re coming yet, just in case you changed your mind._

“Thank you,” I say after a moment. “For giving me that choice.”

* * *

 

The passport process isn’t too difficult in and of itself. The questions are easy in that they’re the same ones that I’ve been getting asked since birth—the only stumbling block is home address, but before I can even ask anything about that, Brendon’s written his address out on his phone and is holding it out for me. I’m trying not to dwell too hard on the implications of that—I’d already suspected I was stuck living with him for longer than originally anticipated. I walk out with a temporary pass and the promise that the real thing will get mailed out in approximately six weeks.

_So birthday girl where would you like to go next?_

I think about it, actually think about it. I’d never created a list of things to do if I ever went to LA, because I never thought I’d be going to LA. In theory, the standard ~~terrorist~~ tourist-y things are always a good bet, but I’ve never really been much one for being an actual tourist.

“Can we just forgo the birthday thing and pretend it’s a normal day?” I whine. I’ve never really done anything to celebrate my birthday before, I don’t see why I should start now, when I’m twenty-two.

Brendon shakes his head, grinning at me. _it is your birthday and so we are doing birthday things_

“Yeah, huh,” I agree dryly. “Translation: you want an excuse to do something.”

He pulls the pout back out and looks up at me through his eyelashes. I’ve got to admit, he’s really good at the ‘being adorable enough to get what he wants’ thing. _I am offended that you would accuse me of using this momentous occasion as a means of satisfying my own selfish desires_ he types.

“Was it really that important that you use big words?” I ask good-naturedly. “It seems like too much work when you can’t actually talk.”

_Movies?_

“Movies as a suggestion on what we should do or movies as a reason for using big words?”

It takes him a little longer to respond, and when he does he’s showing me a .gif from _Road to El Dorado_ , the part where Miguel and Tulio decide ‘both is good.’

I roll my eyes before leaning back into the seat. “Fuck, I don’t even know what’s playing,” I admit finally. “But movies sound—” My phone rings, and I blanch. I’d forgotten that I’d told Graham that I’d answer the phone if my mom called. I’d forgotten that she was going to. “I should…” I say feebly, pulling my phone out of my pocket. “Hello?”

_Hailey, oh, thank—_

“Kairi,” I correct automatically. I’m staring straight ahead, out the windshield. I can feel Brendon watching me, and I feel like if I look over at him I’ll choke up. “It’s Kairi.”

_Thank God you’re all right,_ my mom gushes, acting as if I hadn’t spoken. _Hailey, I’ve been so worried!_

“Kairi,” I tell her again, because I don’t know what else to say. ‘I’ve been so worried’ she says. ‘I love you so much’ she says. I don’t care about what she says, not anymore. Not since she so completely disregarded my wellbeing over and over and over and over and—

_Graham says you’re on the West Coast, but he won’t tell me anything else. Oh, Hailey, you are safe, right?_

And that’s it. It’s not about her calling me Hailey—no, I expected that. It’s that she’s not even _listening_ to me when I tell her that I don’t want to be called Hailey anymore. She isn’t listening, because she _never_ listens. Dustin never listened and my dad never really listened and nobody ever really listens to me because everything I have to say is so _unimportant_ and—“Was there anything you wanted?” I ask finally, giving up on trying to correct her about my name. I’ve never heard my voice sound so _cold_ before. I feel Brendon’s hand on my knee, but I don’t look away from the windshield.

_Hailey, I want you to come_ home _,_ my mom says after a moment. It almost sounds like she’s holding back a sob. I believe it. I just can’t bring myself to care, not anymore.

“No,” I tell her carefully. “No, I’m not doing that.”

_Dustin’s sorry,_ she promises, voice breaking. _He overreacted, he knows that, he’s—_

“Good for him,” I snap, because I’ve heard it before. The same story, told again and again and again. He’s sorry that he overreacted, he’s sorry that he shouted, he’s sorry for throwing my TV or flipping my bed or possibly breaking my computer or the holes in the wall. He’s so sorry, that he does it all again two days later. “I’m glad he feels _something_.” The words are harsher than I meant; I know he’s hurting that they took Tristan, I know it’s hard for him. I know he loves his son.

_Hailey, you’re not being—_

“Fair?” I interrupt, a hysterical laugh bubbling its way out of my throat. “ _I’m_ not being _fair_?” I shut my eyes and breathe deeply for a moment, not really listening as my mom babbles on about how sorry my brother is and how much they all miss me. “I’m not going back,” I say finally, effectively stopping her from saying anymore. “I told you, years ago. One more time, I’m gone. You never should have let him back in that house. I’m not going back. I was never going to go back.”

_Hailey, please—_

“My name’s Kairi, and I’m not going back.” I hit ‘end call’ and chuck the phone into the back. I don’t know if it lands on the seat or the floor or in the trunk or what, only that I don’t really care.

“Kairi.”

I suck in a breath and turn my head to face Brendon, deciding to try and ignore everything that just happened. “So, movies?”

He scrutinizes me for another minute, trying to decide whether or not he should let me drop the subject. He seems to agree to it, though, as he nods and starts the car up, pulling onto the highway.

* * *

 

Three hours later, I can almost forget about the disaster of a phone call with my mom. There’s still half a bucket of popcorn left, and my grin’s almost as easy as it was when we left the house. There’s still a part of me that’s thinking about mom, and Dustin, and there’s always a part of me thinking about Tristan. But I’m having a good enough time with Brendon that I can put all of those thoughts away on the backburner, to worry about them later.

_Ready to go home?_ I’m almost used to Brendon’s new way of communication, just typing everything up on the notes app on his phone. What I’m _not_ used to—so incredibly not used to—is how casually he said (typed) _home_. I had gotten so used to not knowing where home was—when I was at school, home was Carolina. When I was in Carolina, I just wanted to get back to Virginia. And then I left both and I had _no_ home. Now, home is a too-big-for-two-people house, with two dogs and the lead singer for one of my favorite bands.

“Yeah,” I say with a grin.  We climb into the car, and he types something else out on his phone.

_Gush about the movie so I don’t get bored driving_

“You’re so _needy_ ,” I whine, slumping back into my seat. Then, “I’m really sorry you have to do this.” Because I am, and I never told him thank you for talking to me like that the other night, or even most of yesterday. He kept up a steady stream of conversation with Zack, to the point where I could see Zack getting kind of confused at how much he talked, and a bit of concern for his voice.

I can see that Brendon’s about to pull over or something so he can actually have this conversation, but I beat him to it. “I’m grateful, too. I mean, seriously, thank you. _So_ much.” I stare down at my hands, picking at my nails. “Nobody’s ever tried so hard to make me feel better. They all usually just think I’m overreacting, that a childhood babysitter’s not worth being this upset over, and…” I take a deep breath, trying to redirect my thoughts back to the original point. “You talked yourself hoarse, and then you talked some more. And I don’t really know what I’m sorry _about_ because I’m not sorry I told you, and it’s impossible to be sorry for being _traumatized_ like that, but I’m sorry about _something_.”

I look up at him when he reaches over and takes one of my hands. He shoots me a small smile before turning back to the road, but he doesn’t let go of my hand.

It doesn’t matter what happens next, what happens for the rest of the day. It doesn’t matter that the phone call with my mom went sour. Because for the first time in far too long, I’ve got a home, I’ve got someone who would do anything to make sure I’m gonna be okay, and I’ve got _hope_. Hope that it’s going to be okay, hope that things are going to pick up.

It’s the best birthday I’ve ever had, and I don’t really think anything is going to change that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's excited for January 15?


	8. I'll Lose the Traits that Worry Me

My first impression of the airport is that it’s loud, and busy. My second impression is that it’s nothing like the Greyhound stations that I used to spend hours in whenever I went home for breaks. There’s heavier security, more people dressed up like they’re not about to sit on a plane for hours, and it’s just _louder_. Planes taking off is an infinitely louder noise than buses starting up.

Dan and Kenny seem pretty happy to finally get to meet me—apparently Brendon talks about me a lot. They say it’s all good things, but I can’t help but think that they know that I’m fucked up in the head, even if they don’t know why. There are plenty of smiles to go around, but I’m still afraid that they’ll see through me and start judging. I know I’m reverting, and I know there’s no reason for it, but I can’t seem to stop. I just stick close to Brendon, because I know that he’s not going to leave me now.

“You okay?” Brendon asks quietly, bumping my knee with his own.

“Yeah, just…I’ve never been on a plane before, is all.” It might not be the only cause of my (admittedly minor) panic, but it’s certainly one of them, and it’s not a small part at all.

Brendon smiles at me. “It’s not so bad,” he assures me. “Just as long as there’s no tweezers in that bag of yours.”

That gets a huff of laughter. “What about my knitting needles?” I ask innocently. “Are they okay?”

“Is it actually possible to kill somebody with a knitting needle, or is the TSA just really paranoid?” Kenny interjects, coming over to sit on Brendon’s other side.

“You can stab someone’s eyes out,” I supply. I’ve actually abrased my cornea because my mom left a knitting needle on my bed and I didn’t notice until after I laid down. I can’t imagine the damage that can be done if you actually _want_ to cause someone bodily harm. “There was an episode of NCIS where someone killed a man by stabbing a knitting needle through his neck.”

Kenny blinks at me. “Bren, I think your new friend is a serial killer.”

Brendon laughs loudly at that. “Well, she hasn’t killed me in the two months I’ve known her, so I think I’m safe.”

“Of course I haven’t killed you yet,” I say without thinking. “I need to make sure I get your money when you die, first.”

“Why the fuck would you say that with his bodyguard _right here_?” Zack demands from his seat across from Brendon. “My job is to _keep_ people from killing him.”

I don’t even know why I said it _anyway_ , Zack in hearing range or not. I know that I used to make jokes about casual murder, but I haven’t even thought that way since before finals week of my senior year—it’s been non-stop stress ever since. “And you’ve done a fantastic job thus far,” I assure him.

Brendon’s still grinning as he wraps an arm around my shoulders. “Relax, Zack,” he says, waving his other hand dismissively. “You heard her. I’m safe just as long as she doesn’t get all my money.”

“So…the plan is to Black Widow him?” Dallon questions. “Can I _help_?”

“What…Dallon, what part would you even _play_ in this scenario?” Kenny demands. “You can’t both marry him.”

“Some chemicals cannot be legally obtained by persons under the age of twenty-five,” I say helpfully. “I’m under twenty-five, you can be my supplier.”

“Unbelievable,” Zack mutters. “You’re plotting the murder of my charge _right in front of me_.”

“And him,” I add, pointing sideways at Brendon. “So at least neither of you will be _surprised_.”

“Okay, but now there’s three witnesses who _heard_ you plotting your murder,” Dan points out. “So you’ll be caught before you could _possibly_ make use of all that money.”

“Hearsay,” I say dismissively. “This is all purely hypothetical banter, brought about by the very casual inquiry as to the effectiveness of a knitting needle as a murder weapon.”

“I think more specifically it was me accusing you of being a serial killer,” Kenny argues dryly.

It’s weird, being so at ease in an airport talking about hypothetical murder and whatnot, but it’s so easy and simple that I feel myself relax, feel the tension and the fear of these people seeing through me and judging me seep out. It leaves me exhausted, but I figure I can sleep on the plane. This easiness, this playful banter…It feels amazing. And it feels almost normal.

* * *

 

The exhaustion from my realization at LAX does not disappear with a nap on the flight. If anything, the jet lag makes the exhaustion worse (not that I’m surprised, just a bit annoyed). But in spite of the way my eyes keep trying to close on me, I’m practically _buzzing_ with excitement. I’ve never been in another country before, and I’m not only in the UK _right fucking now_ , but I’m about to go to one of the world’s biggest music festivals. I can sleep for a week when we get back to the States.

“Sleep or real food?” Brendon asks the group as a whole, once we’re out on the street. I can hear a siren in the distance already—Dan Howell was clearly not exaggerating about how often that happens.

“We go to the hotel, where there’s real food waiting for us,” Kenny answers readily, leaning against the wall.

“The hotel that’s an hour away?” Dallon reminds him. “On a bus that doesn’t leave for another hour on top of that?”

“Oh yeah.”

I don’t think I can wait two hours to eat, but I’m not really sure I can make it through a meal without crashing, either.

“We should go over there,” Brendon declares, pointing to a storefront caddy-cornered to us. “Because Kairi needs authentic fish and chips.” He throws an arm around my shoulders. I can _feel_ the shit-eating grin on his face.

“Kairi needs sleep,” I mumble, turning my head so that my face is tucked into his side.

“Yeah, the first experience with jet lag’s the worst,” Dan says sympathetically. His voice is shaking with suppressed laughter, though, the fucker.

“See, Zack? Does she really look capable of murder?” Brendon asks, turning his body ever so slightly so that he can face his bodyguard.

“Chem major,” I grumble into his side. “Poison. Easy-peasy.”

“Oh, shit, she’s a smart person,” Kenny says, feigning panic. “What if she sees what a bunch of idiots we are? What if she _leaves_?”

I turn my head again so I’m looking up at him. “I’m a fucking _dumbass_ ,” I assure him dryly. “Like, seriously. I’m an idiot. Brilliant, sure, but fucking _stupid_.”

“Well, you’ve gotta be smarter than the brother that slept on top of your car,” Dallon points out helpfully.

Dan, Kenny, and Zack all shoot Dallon _what the fuck_ looks. It does sound strange, when you say it like that.

“It’s debatable sometimes.” It’s not, really. I’m smarter than my brother, in pretty much every way. I make better choices, I’m better at thinking things through, and I’m better educated. But I’m unobservant as fuck. I’m a less reliable narrator than Harry Potter. I forgot about the basketball court right outside my room that I complained about _all the time_. Just. Forgot about it. Out of the blue.

“No, wait, hang on. Go back to the brother sleeping on top of a car?” Zack requests. Should have known that between the three who hadn’t heard that story, _one_ of them would press for details.

“I have a brother, and he slept on top of a car. It’s not really that difficult.”

“But _why_?” Kenny asks, at the same time Zack says, “You have a _brother_?”

“Two,” I correct Zack. “I have two brothers, and they’re both selectively intelligent. It runs in the family.”

Brendon must be shooting them a warning look, because I can see that all three of them want to know more, but they don’t say anything else. I’m thankful, because I can feel myself tensing up again now that the topic of my family’s being broached. I wonder if it’ll ever stop hurting.

“So, authentic fish and chips,” Brendon says finally, after a silence that feels too charged. “We’ve got an hour to kill.”

“Sold!” Kenny declares grandly, setting off towards the crosswalk. The rest of us follow him, and I can’t stop looking around at everything. The sky’s overcast, threatening rain, and that’s not really very promising for a huge outdoor music festival, but my understanding is that it’s always threatening rain (or actively raining) in the UK so there must be some kind of contingency. Or maybe they just don’t care.

The cars on the opposite side of the road thing is strange, but not unexpected, and it’s weird to me to be seeing black cabs instead of yellow ones. Even though all the signs are in English, it’s not easy to forget that I’m in a very different country.

The food’s actually not as bad as I’d been afraid of. I’m not typically a big fish fan, and I wasn’t sure how greasy the fries would be. I don’t participate too much in the conversation going on at the table, but Brendon doesn’t seem to think anything of it like he would have done without the excuse of jet lag. It’s nice, not to have to focus too much on the conversations without worrying him. I don’t know why I care so much, or why _he_ cares so much, but I know that it feels nice to know that there’s somebody who genuinely cares about me, even knowing all the things he knows about me.

“So how are your authentic fish and chips?” Dan asks suddenly, looking up at me.

I glance up and shrug. “It’s fish,” I say noncommittally. “’M not really a fish person. ‘S not bad, though.”

“Okay, but you’ve gotta admit, the chips part is awesome,” Zack argues, stealing one of Brendon’s fries. It seems unnecessary, he’s still got half his own. He’s right, though, these are the best fries I’ve ever had. So I nod.

“Yeah, they’re really great,” I admit. I realize suddenly that there’s only about a quarter of the fries left, and about half the fish, and I’m only just starting to get full. I may actually be able to finish it. Suddenly, this is my favorite meal of all time.

“So your first time at a music festival, and you get to hang backstage,” Kenny observes, leaning back in his chair. “Not gonna lie, I’m kind of jealous.”

“Dude, I’d have _killed_ to see Reading  & Leeds from backstage for my first festival,” Dallon adds.

I shrug. “I mean, yeah, it’s pretty cool, but—”

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Zack interjects suddenly. “Bus to Reading leaves in ten, we’ve gotta go.”

I blink in shock. I hadn’t realized it had been that long already. There’s a sudden flurry of movement as we all stand up and rush out of the small shop.

One hour long bus ride, and then I’ll have to see Patrick again. One more hour, then I’ll have to apologize.

* * *

 

“So, obviously, I didn’t think through the part where you’d have to room with me,” Brendon says apologetically, opening the door. He smiles at me, and I find myself surprisingly not worried about it. Not that I ever really was—I hadn’t realized it either, and I’m too exhausted to really worry about much of anything now that I have.

“Oh the horror.” This is, uncontestably, the single greatest hotel room I’ve ever set foot in. I set down my bag and collapse into one of them. “’M just gonna sleep,” I mumble into the pillow. I don’t know if Brendon can actually understand it, but he laughs lightly, so he’s got to have some idea as to what I’m saying. It’s only about nine or something, but I think that’s a fairly decent time to be going to sleep, especially since I’m practically comatose already.

When I wake up, the glowing numbers on the bedside clock tell me it’s only about six-thirty. Brendon’s softly snoring on the other bed, and in the darkness I can see that his blanket is mostly gathered on the floor. I wonder if Graham would be awake, back home. It’s only about one-thirty back on the East Coast, and I know he usually doesn’t get to sleep until late anyway. I decide it can’t hurt to shoot him a text.

_Dude you’ll never guess where I’m texting you from_

I quickly switch the phone to silent, so if Graham does text back, it won’t wake up Brendon. I’m nothing if not considerate.

_Were_

The typo brings a small smile to my face. I’d forgotten about how he doesn’t bother to check his spelling if it’s not too important. I remember, now, the text he’d sent my mom when she and I went to the store or to Rick’s or something. _Come bake_. It was funny then, now it just sends a pang of nostalgia through my chest.

_I’m in a hotel in the uk and I’m gonna be backstage at the r &l fest this weekend_

The little dots appear, telling me that he’s typing something out. _I don’t know what r &l is why are you in England?_

_Bc there’s a massive music festival and I’m gonna be backstage for it_

_Well have fun I’m glad everything’s working out for you_

“Yeah, me too,” I mutter. Graham’s right, everything is working out. My life’s not complete hell anymore. It might not be perfect, might never be perfect, but it’s working out. It’s coming together.

“You too what?”

I start, dropping the phone onto the bed. Brendon’s pushing himself up into a seated position, reaching out to flick on his lamp.

“Uh…Just…Texting Graham,” I explain. “Agreeing with something he said.”

Brendon nods in acknowledgement. “Time’s it?” he asks after a moment, voice still thick with sleep.

I pick my phone up and glance at it. “Quarter under seven.” It’s probably earlier than he’d have liked, but there’s no way it’s entirely my fault he’s already up.

He just groans and slumps back over, burying his face into his pillow. “Whoever invented jet lag should be tarred and feathered.”

“Wait ‘til the sun comes up ‘fore you start thinking violent thoughts,” I grumble back.

“No.” He pushes himself up again and runs a hand through his hair. I can’t tell if he did that to tame it, but it wasn’t very effective if he did. It just falls right back into his face. “We don’t go on ‘til one, why the fuck am I awake?”

“Because reasons,” I answer plaintively. I don’t know why I’m up this early, either, I’ve gotten much better about waking up at ungodly hours. I roll out of the bed and stretch my arms above my head, arching my back like a cat.

I notice Brendon staring at the strip of skin exposed by my shirt riding up, but I can’t tell if he’s actually seeing it or if his mind’s someplace else. I pretend I didn’t see, because I don’t want to draw attention to it if he was just zoned out.

“So…uhm…” Brendon trails off, reaching out and grabbing his phone from the nightstand. He unlocks it then holds it out for me to take.

On the screen is a texting conversation. With Patrick.

_Patrick: But can I SEE her?_

_Brendon: it’s up to her man that’s not my call_

_Patrick: Does she know I’m here?_

_Brendon: I told her before we bought her ticket she said she’d want to talk to you but I don’t want to make any promises for her_

_Patrick: So ask her_

_Brendon: She’s asleep I’ll ask her when she wakes up_

_Patrick: Just_

_Patrick: Tell me if she’s okay_

_Brendon: I think she’s still got a ways to go before she’s okay. But she’s getting there._

I hand him back his phone and sit down next to him on his bed. “Four days,” I breathe out. “I was in Chicago _four days_.”

“Must have made a hell of a fucking impact,” Brendon observes softly. “I…It slipped out, first time I mentioned you. One of the first days, Pete asked if I wanted to go out somewhere. Said something about how it’d be good for me, or some bullshit.” He lets out a breath in a rush of air. “And I told him. Said I found this girl, and she’s sick, and she needs help, and I couldn’t leave her alone any more than I already had. And he asked for your name. Soon as I told him, there was a moment of silence, then he just said, ‘Call Patrick,’ and he hung up. Spent twenty minutes on the phone with Patrick promising him I’d take care of you, that I wouldn’t let you run off until you’d be okay. And even then that I’d keep in touch.”

“Did he tell you how we met?” I ask finally. When he shakes his head, I take a shuddering breath. “I’d just gotten off the bus, and I realized. I haven’t got a fucking _clue_ where I am. And I was terrified of everything, of my family and all that shit, but also of the _unfamiliarity_ of everything. And suddenly, there’s this kid, in front of me. Tristan’s age, and he’s crying. And he’s lost. I’m lost, and he’s lost, it was like the blind leading the fucking blind, but I helped him. And we found Elisa.”

“They thought you were a good person,” Brendon realizes. “And you didn’t agree.”

“It’s…I thought, _I_ thought…I thought that helping Declan was just my way of seeking redemption for what I did to Tristan. And, more to the point, I had this…this irrational _fear_ that what I did to Tristan was written on my face somewhere, that they’d _see_ it, and…They believed in me. They believed _so much_ in me, and that I was a good person, and I couldn’t take that. It was easier to run than it was to stick around and wait for them to see that.”

“You’re not a bad person,” Brendon argues, nudging me with his shoulder. “When are you gonna believe me when I say that?”

“Never, probably,” I mutter darkly. I lean my head on his shoulder. “But I believe that you think I’m not a bad person, and it doesn’t make me want to run anymore.”

His arm snakes around my waist. “I’ll tell him what room we’re in. He can come by when he wakes up.”

* * *

 

The first thing Patrick does when he sees me is wraps me in the tightest embrace I’ve ever received. Even tighter than when I left my phone upstairs and Brendon was afraid I’d left. It’s constricting my breathing, but I don’t mind too much because I can hear Patrick’s shaky breathing and I realize that he’s probably close to tears. The guilt feels like a twisting knife to the gut.

“Oh, thank God,” he’s mumbling over and over. I hear the door shut, and I know that Brendon left to give us some privacy. I’m grateful.

“I…fuck, I’m so sorry,” I say finally, hugging him back. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he mumbles. “I’m just glad you’re all right.” He pulls away, studying me closely. “You _are_ all right, aren’t you?” he adds concernedly. “It wasn’t just Brendon—”

“I wouldn’t say all right,” I admit carefully. “But I’m definitely getting better.” It doesn’t feel like a lie, and I’m glad. I’m tired of lying.

“Just…God, I’m so glad you’re here,” Patrick says, pulling me close again. I remember a scene in Doctor Who, when the Doctor and Clara were both hiding something from each other. _Hugging is a good way to hide your face._ “Can…” He takes a deep breath. “Why?” It comes out kind of strangled, and the guilt twists the knife again.

“I…” I back up, because I can’t hide my face while I admit this. He deserves better, first off. “I ran away from home,” I begin, not entirely sure how specific I’m about to get. “I called DSS on my brother, and then I ran. They took my nephew away, we don’t even know what state he’s in anymore, if somebody’s adopted him or not. And I felt _so bad_ because as soon as it was done, as soon as it was too late, I realized my brother didn’t deserve that. I felt like _I_ deserved the worst life could possibly throw at me, and—” I break off, choking back a sob. “And you _believed_ in me. You, and Elisa, and Declan, you all…you thought I was some kind of _saint_ for helping you, and it scared me so much that you’d see what kind of person I was, and I couldn’t take the thought of disappointing you like that.”

“Kairi, why would you…We’d never have done that to you,” Patrick amends, placing his hands on my shoulders. “ _Never_.”

I swallow down the lump in my throat and nod. “I…I know that, now. I do, I swear I do. It’s just…I’m a pessimist, on the best days, and I was so scared then, scared of _everything_. Scared of my brother, scared of what was going to happen to my nephew, everything was terrifying. I was such a coward, and running away seemed a lot easier than staying to face something that, looking back, was never going to happen.”

It does seem so ridiculous, now, that I could ever be so afraid of that. Patrick and his family are great fucking people, they weren’t about to throw me out on the streets just because I did something that I felt needed to be done, even if I regretted it the moment it was done.

“You aren’t a coward, Kairi,” Patrick assures me softly, squeezing my shoulders gently. “You’re the bravest fucking person I’ve ever met.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've noticed that this story has two definitive parts: the part where Kairi's healing, and then there's going to be Kairi and Brendon getting together (somebody wanna give them a ship name or...?). This is officially entering into that transitioning stage. That's not to say that Kairi's entirely better, just better enough. There's a bit of filler for a while though, sorry.


	9. There's Always Time for Second Guesses I Don't Wanna Know

Once I’ve talked to Patrick, everything I’d been so worried about is gone, and the jet lag more or less goes away, allowing me to enjoy my time in the UK in earnest. Apparently, there was down time scheduled in so that we can all (probably meaning me) explore London. It’s an amazing chance, and even though I can’t help but think that maybe it’s an inconvenience to the rest of them, and it’s all for me, I can’t really bring myself to mind. Maybe I’m just coming back into myself a little more, and maybe it’s because I’ve spilled so much of myself to Brendon, or maybe it’s because _something_ in my tumultuous life’s settled, but I don’t _care_ what the reason is, because I’m just glad that I’m more comfortable with my surroundings, and I’m making new friends, and everything’s starting to get just that tiniest bit easier.

“Ready to go home tomorrow?” Brendon asks softly from his bed, where he’s scrolling through something on his phone.

“But I haven’t even figured out where Dan and Phil live yet,” I whine jokingly. “How can I leave without that important piece of information?”

He just huffs out a laugh. “Am I not enough for you or something?” he demands, feigning offense. “You know where I live!”

“Actually,” I say, thinking about it. “I have absolutely no idea _where_. I just know the entirety of the layout of the inside of your house.”

“That…That sounds worse.” Brendon starts laughing, then. “You just made that sound so fucking _creepy_!”

I shrug. “It’s like a gift or something.”

There’s a moment of quiet laughter from his bed, then another moment of quiet, then, “How come you never talk about your friends?”

“Because I—” I stop myself, realizing that I have absolutely no clue how I planned to finish that sentence. “I don’t…”

“I mean, I can understand the whole family thing,” he continues. “I wouldn’t want to talk about them either. But your friends…”

“I…I don’t know,” I admit, pushing myself up into a seated position and turning to face him. He’s still laying down, but his head’s turned to me, his phone sitting on his stomach. “I think…I feel betrayed? I guess. My friend, my _best_ friend, she…She left, when she graduated high school. She joined the Air Force. And before she did that, whenever something happened, whenever something went wrong, I’d just…call her. Except I can’t do that anymore, there’s time zones and her job and she’s not free at all hours like she used to be. And…all my other friends, they’re not…”

“It’s hard for you to trust people,” Brendon finishes for me.

I nod. “How’d you figure?” I asked wryly. “If you wanted perspective on it, you were easy.”

“I was also persistent as fuck and you live in my house,” he points out, and yeah. Yeah, he’s got a point.

“I’m not _opposed_ to talking about my friends, though,” I add, because I’m really not. Most all of my best memories have to do with my friends (the only other ones I have are class and family, so it’s not like that’s particularly difficult). “I just…Well, they’ve hardly come up, have they?”

Brendon grins, standing up and coming over to my bed, flopping down onto it and staring up at me expectantly. “So, what are your friends like, Kairi?”

“Well, if you absolutely _must_ know,” I start, acting like it’s such a pain to talk about, but also making it extremely obvious that it _isn’t_ , “they were all weird as fuck.”

“To be fair, _you’re_ weird as fuck too,” Brendon points out.

I laugh. “Bitch, I’ve been nothing but normal since we met.” That’s a bold-faced lie if ever I’ve heard one, but it was a different kind of weird, so maybe he’ll let it slide. Other than a disbelieving snort, he does. “Okay, but seriously, we were all like, absolutely _insane_.” I tell him about the kind of plot bunnies that me and Ursula would come up with (“Ursula?” “It’s a nickname she got before we met, I never found out where it came from.”), and about the way that Sam would come to pick me up by texting me “come get in my van” (“Okay, no, that’s creepy.” “Especially before I’d saved her number.”), and the Valentine’s Day me and Nat had spent with too much sugar and an incredibly terrible heart-shaped cake with more icing and sprinkles that actual cake. After a while, my throat starts to hurt, because it’s the absolute most I’ve spoken since I left home, since _before_ I left home, but I hardly even notice. I’ve _missed_ my friends, and I didn’t realize it until just now, here in a hotel room in London, talking to Brendon Urie about how batshit we are all, how they bring out the best in me.

And Brendon…He’s kind of just watching me, and he’s listening, I can tell, but he’s got a dopey smile on his face, and I can’t help but wonder what I’ve said that’s making him smile like an idiot.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask finally, clearing my throat.

“You’re happy,” he says without hesitation. He blinks, and I can see his brain catching up with his mouth. “I mean, it’s just…You’re like—It’s late, we’ve got an early flight, we should…” He climbs out of my bed, and if I didn’t know any better I’d say he was _blushing_ as he crawls under his own covers and flicks out his lamp.

I lay down and pull my own comforter up, half wanting to stare at Brendon in confusion, half puzzling through what he said before he thought about it.

_You’re happy_. But…that’s not _new,_ is it? Not anymore? I’ve been getting better, haven’t I? I’ve been joking, and laughing, and opening up. I’ve been myself, since I opened up to Brendon. Since I told him everything.

~~Not everything but the important things~~

_Not quite yourself_. I realize it with a start. I’ve been _pretending_ to be myself, I think. I’ve been pretending to be normal, like I do in class on the anniversary of my grandfather’s death, like I did once I was out of shock over Rick, like I do around people I don’t trust, people that I can’t bring myself to break down around. And that’s weird, because I’m almost completely certain that I trust Brendon more than anyone. More than Sam, more than Ursula, maybe even more than Nat. _Why would I pretend around him?_

I blink up at the ceiling, then flick my gaze over to Brendon’s bed. He’s curled up under the blanket, which is unusual for him (I’ve been sharing a room with him for almost a week, it’s not that creepy that I know that). He’s seen me at all my lowest points, dazed from heat and dehydration, crying into his shoulder because he was being _kind_ , needing him to just talk because in the silence comes Rick’s dying breath. He’s _been there_ for me, at all my lowest points. Helping me and holding me and distracting me and _why am I pretending to be okay around him_ when I have no need to do so?

_Maybe you’re not pretending_ , a small voice whispers. It sounds suspiciously like Nat, and that confuses me a bit. _Not for him. Maybe it’s for yourself._

That thought. That thought terrifies me. Because I want to know when I’m not okay, so that I can change it. If I was pretending, hiding my breakdown from myself…

It had worked.

* * *

 

 mBrendon’s in the shower when I wake up, so I use the opportunity to gather my stuff back into my suitcase and change into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. It’s obnoxiously early, because Brendon had been right the night before. We’ve got an early flight. I feel like I didn’t get much sleep last night, between babbling about my friends from Carolina and trying to figure out my own thought process. I’m barely keeping my eyes open, and I know that by the time we get back to LA jet lag’s just gonna be even worse. I’ll probably sleep for three days, unless he decides to let one of the dogs into my room again.

He comes out of the bathroom dressed in just a pair of his own sweatpants, slung low on his hips, running a towel through his hair. “Glad you’re up,” he says, heading to his suitcase and making sure it’s already packed. I only just notice how he seems to have already gathered most everything. I wonder how early he must have gotten up, to do that. He had spread his shit even more than me.

“Yeah, I had an alarm,” I explain. “I’d have never woken up otherwise.” I wonder how I slept through his.

“Smart,” he acknowledges, pulling on a shirt. He zips his suitcase up and sets it upright, ready to go. “You ready?”

I zip my own case—I’d gotten everything out of the bathroom the night before—and nod, but he’s not looking at me. He’s texting someone, or maybe typing out a tweet or something. “Yeah,” I answer, so he doesn’t think I’m ignoring him.

“Awesome.” He looks up and smiles, but I can’t help but think something seems… _off_. Something seems off and I feel a knot forming in my gut. _Please just be paranoid please just be paranoid please please please paranoid please just paranoid please_

The entire cab ride to the airport, I feel like I’m over analyzing everything. Brendon’s not constantly throwing his arm around my shoulder, or bumping his knee against mine. He still sits next to me, but it almost feels more like he’s doing it because he doesn’t want everyone else to think something’s wrong. I came to England with the thought _everything’s coming together_ , and now I can’t help but feel like I’m leaving England with the thought _everything’s falling apart again_. It hurts. _Fuck_ , it hurts.

“Why couldn’t our plane leave at a _normal_ time?” Kenny whines, leaning his head against the window.

“The plane leaves at nine,” Dallon points out. “That’s a perfectly reasonable time.”

“If the plane leaves at nine, why is it six thirty?” I grumble, resting my head on Brendon’s shoulder. “’S too early.”

“Because airports are dumb,” Dan answers petulantly. He’s slouched in his seat, with a hood pulled over his eyes. “And they make us get there two hours early.”

We’re like a group of whiny kids, and Zack’s glaring at us like he refuses to be the harassed parent here. “Well fuck them,” I mumble, snuggling closet to Brendon. If he really is distancing himself further, if I’m not just being paranoid, then I’m probably making matters worse. But I’m really tired, and I’m hoping that that’s just his problem, too. “’M sleepy.”

“I’m sorry, Kairi, are you three?” Dallon asks, reaching over and poking me in the side. I don’t really react much beyond glaring in his general direction. I’m not violently ticklish like Sam or Nat.

“No I’m five,” I reply absently.

“Thought you were six,” Brendon counters. It takes me a moment to remember what he’s talking about, the easy banter from my birthday. _I’m a full grown six-year-old._

“Fuck off,” I growl, letting my eyes slip shut. I really didn’t get much sleep the night before.

“I don’t think five- _or_ six-year-olds say ‘fuck,’” Dan pointed out unhelpfully.

“Graham did.” Graham was saying fuck since he could _speak_. For as much as I love Rick, for as great a person he was, he had some very questionable parenting/babysitting/overall-caretaking methods. Like not watching his language, or feeding mashed potatoes to a three-month-old.

“Who the fuck is Graham and why is he relevant?” Zack finally speaks up.

“Bet he’s a boyfriend,” Kenny jokes, “and she just misses him _so much_.”

I feel Brendon tense up, which is strange, because usually _I’m_ the one doing the tensing. He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me closer, which is even _stranger_ , because up until this point I’d thought he was avoiding having to touch me so much. I chalk it up to him just being exhausted but I’m still confused as shit.

“That’s disgusting,” I say, instead of focusing too much on all that. “He’s my baby brother, who happens to be the size of a bear.”

“You’re brother’s a bear cub?” Dan asks, feigning excitement. “That’s so cool!”

“I don’t think Mama Bear would have let anyone take her bear cub,” Dallon points out. “They’re fiercely—Kairi, what…?”

I wave a hand in his direction, giggling hysterically into Brendon’s shoulder. I can feel everybody watching me, which is fair, because it wasn’t really that funny. “There was…history…Hunter…Mama Bear…” I try to explain through my laughter, but all that really happens is they end up more confused and possibly worried about my wellbeing. Ah, well.

I calm down from my slightly-hysterical giggling at about the same time we pull up to the airport. As we all get out, Brendon looks at me with a raised eyebrow. “Wanna try explaining what was so funny again?”

“So in my US History class in high school, there was this kid named Hunter,” I start as I grab my bag from the trunk. “And he said the most random and unrelated things in class, I think my teacher gave up with trying to get him to focus. But we were talking about the Lewis and Clarke expedition, and how they brought two bear cubs back to the President. Hour and a half, only thing Hunter would talk about was ‘but what about Mama Bear?’ to the point where I thought the teacher was going to throw the whiteboard marker at him.”

“After an hour and a half, I would have,” Zack grumbles.

“Okay, but this Hunter kid brought up an excellent point,” Dallon concedes. “What _did_ happen to Mama Bear?”

Zack turns and points an accusing finger at Dallon. “Don’t start.”

* * *

 

“Kairi, are you about to fall asleep in the backseat?” Zack calls back, as he pulls the car out of the LAX parking lot.

“Yes,” I mumble back, because I’m so exhausted that I probably won’t be up that much longer.

“We may or may not have stayed up talking until two,” Brendon adds helpfully. Oh shit, was it really that long? No wonder my throat’s still scratchy.

“Goddamn, guys,” Zack grumbles. “The two of you are like thirteen-year-old girls, I _swear_.”

“’S not nice,” I say petulantly, squinching my eyes shut tight. I own like six pairs of sunglasses, most of which I got for free. And I left every single pair at home. It’s too bright and I’m too tired and Zack’s being mean.

I fade in and out of sleep for the entire drive. I think Brendon might be Periscoping, so I stay still and silent in the back. I know that there’s a chance somebody saw us in England and took pictures and posted them to Twitter or Tumblr or something, but on the off chance they haven’t, I don’t want to be the one that gives away that I’m here.

“Kairi, come on,” I hear suddenly, pulling me out of my half-sleep. Brendon’s gently nudging me up. I look around, taking in my surroundings. We’re sitting in the driveway, and Zack’s pulling our bags out of the trunk.

“You know, this isn’t in my job description,” he calls suddenly, clearly unhappy being reduced to, like, bellboy or something.

I make a sound that is closer to a whine than I care to admit, climbing out of the car heavily. I move around to the back and grab my bag, smiling at Zack in wordless thanks.

He waves a hand dismissively. “Just go get some sleep.” As we’re walking up to the front door, I hear him call out, “B!” I assume Brendon turns around, and Zack says something with his face in that way that only works when you’ve known each other forever and a day. Brendon just sighs in response and unlocks the door. Almost before we’ve even stepped inside, we’re accosted by Bogart and Penny. I let Brendon greet his dogs and make my way up to my room, leaving my bag in an out-of-the-way corner. Too much effort right now.

“Kairi, can you wait a sec?” Brendon asks, right before I’m out of the room. I freeze, feeling my blood run cold. “I, uh…I know, I’ve been acting weird today, and…I’m really sorry. It’s just, I…” He sighs, as I turn to face him. He’s doing something on his phone. “Here,” he says finally, holding it out to me.

It’s a screencap of a chain of tweets. At the top is a picture. Of us.

_@beebo4evr: @brendonurie ‘s new gf???? they’re so cute!!!_

_@panicattheparty: @beebo4evr @brendonurie Isn’t it a bit soon to be finding a new gf? He hasn’t been divorced that long_

“Oh,” I say smally. “That’s...”

“Yeah,” he agrees, even though I haven’t actually said anything. “So I thought…I’m sorry. I should have explained what was going on, not just distance myself without warning you. That was a dick move.”

“Yeah, it’s…I get it.” I don’t want to tell him it’s fine, because it wasn’t, really. “What…What are you gonna do, about…?” I wave the phone in a vague _this_ gesture before handing it back to him.

“I…” he shrugs. “There’s not really a _right_ way to go about this, is the thing,” he says finally. “Replying to the tweet will only bring attention to it, but not replying to the tweet will only cement the idea further into the people who’ve already seen it. Addressing the problem at all will bring attention to it. I don’t…” He shrugs again, looking helpless. I can’t blame him. “I can’t tell them the actual truth,” he adds.

He’s right, he can’t. I’m not going to give him permission, and I don’t think he’d tell thousands of people even if I did.

There’s a small voice in the back of my head with what seems like a pretty foolproof plan. I’m not going to say it, not going to suggest it. I’m not even letting myself _think_ it. It only seems foolproof because I’m tired, because I didn’t get more than a couple hours of sleep last night and I’ve been exhausted all week. It’s not an option, not even _close_ to a good idea.

“Maybe we should just, um, sleep on it?” I suggest uncertainly. Because that’s a good idea, that’s solid. “I mean, I know my brain’s totally fried, I’m not coming up with anything feasible.”

Brendon nods, and I know that my idea was a good one. Certainly better than the one still fighting to make itself heard. The stupid, implausible little thought that I can’t even figure out where it came from, when any part of me started thinking that way.

_Maybe we could make it not a lie?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is entering into that "I have no idea what I'm doing" territory that I get into about halfway through all my writing. I think I'm getting out of it around chapter 12-ish? Bear with me until then, kay?


	10. But Who Could Love Me I Am Out of My Mind

When I wake up the next morning (or late afternoon, according to the sunlight streaming out the window), I don’t get up right away. I need to think, and I need to do it without Brendon watching me in that concerned way that he does. All that would do is make it harder for me to come up with a solution to the…Twitter problem that isn’t _let’s just actually date_.

Because I _want_ to actually date, is the thing. I think so, anyway. But I can’t _tell_ him that. That one person was right, it hasn’t been _that_ long since Brendon and Sarah got divorced, and on top of that I can’t tell if I actually want to date him, or if it’s some sort of hero-worship thing.

Because. Because Brendon saved my life. It’s that simple. And not in a ‘your music helped me through a rough patch in my life, I was suicidal and then I heard (insert Panic! song here) and I knew I could make it’ kind of way. In a ‘I was dying, legitimately, literally _dying_ and you found me and made sure I was okay’ kind of way. And Brendon helped me through a lot, through a _hell_ of a lot, and usually any kind of romantic interest that comes from something like that isn’t actually romantic interest but more of an _infatuation_ , and I can’t do that to him, or to myself, because that just wouldn’t be fair.

And I don’t even know where any of this is coming from, because a few days ago Brendon Urie was my friend and he was a very good friend that I trusted with a lot of myself, and I was totally content with that. I was _happy_ with that. My life is so complicated—and it was such a fucking hot mess when we met—that it was nice to have something as simple as ‘friend.’ Except, now, there’s a stalkerazzi picture of the two of us sitting out on some random fucking bench somewhere in a foreign country, and I’m struck with just how tactile of a person I am, especially when I’m uncomfortable with my surroundings but comfortable with the person I’m sitting next to. And that picture complicated _everything_ that had been so nice and simple before.

The best idea may actually be to just ignore it, to let the problem die away on its own. The people who’ve already seen it will probably forget about me before too long, and it’s not like the whole world doesn’t think that Brendon’s fucking Dallon, or used to be fucking Spencer or Ryan. Those people will either be ignored or they won’t, I’ll either get a lot of hate or I won’t, and I’m honestly so far gone that I won’t give a rat’s ass either way.

Yes, we’ll ignore the post, we’ll ignore those users who’ve said something and we’ll ignore the problem because the alternative is that I suggest that we date for real and I think it might be wise to sort out my emotions before I try and face them head on.

So I climb out of bed and stretch my arms as high up as they’ll go, standing up on my toes and generally just making myself as tall as I’m physically capable of getting. It feels good to stretch out like this, and I already feel better. Maybe I should stretch out more fully later, pretend that I’m stretching out for dance or guard.

Brendon’s playing the piano when I finally make my way down, and I just stop in the doorway and watch him play. I catch sight of his phone, sitting right next to the music stand with the dark screen facing up to the ceiling, so there’s not really anything stopping me from saying hi.

Except. Except he’s got his eyes half-closed in concentration, half-singing, half-humming whatever song it is he’s playing, and I can see exactly why people like to watch him ‘scope while he plays. He’s beautiful, like this, a description I never thought I’d use outside of a clichéd fanfiction, but no less accurate. And fuck if I’m not so far gone down this rabbit-hole that I’m only ever going to fuck myself up more than I already have.

So I just watch him from the doorway, as he ends the song he’s playing and starts another one, some old jazzy song that’s probably Sinatra. It occurs to me that it’s probably creepy, standing here and watching him, so I silently make my way over and sit down next to him on the bench, not jostling him as a silent plea to _don’t stop_. It’s calming, the way the notes wrap around and envelop me, quieting my still-swirling thoughts. I’m not so confused by all my thoughts anymore, but that’s almost worse because now all I can think is _BrendonBrendonBrendon_ and how I kind of want this. I _really_ want this, for real, for _mine_.

_No,_ I remind myself harshly. _Bad idea._

The song winds to an end, and Brendon lets his fingers come to a rest instead of fading into another song. “How’d you sleep?” he asks softly, not breaking the gentle mood that seems to have settled between us.

“Like a coma patient,” I tell him, just as softly, because I don’t want to break the mood either. It’s easy and soothing and there’s something in me that never wants it to end.

“That’s good.” A moment, then, “You should know, uh…There’s more. Tweets, I mean.”

I sigh, not completely surprised, but wishing that I could be. “Which means it’s probably all over Tumblr,” I point out, looking down at my hands and picking at my fingernails.

“Yeah, probably,” he agrees. “The good news is most of them seem to be happy that I’m ‘moving on,’ or whatever.”

I huff out a laugh. “It sounds like they all think I’m just a rebound,” I observe. I don’t mean to sound bitter about it, but it comes out that way.

“You’re not.” He nudges me with his arm, wordlessly prompting me to look up at him. The earnestness in his eyes almost makes me look back down, but I hold his gaze. “Even if we were dating, it wouldn’t be a rebound.”

“No, I know that.” There’s a beat of silence, where he’s waiting for me to say something else and I’m debating whether or not I really want to ask the question that’s weighing heavy on my tongue. “Why am I still here?”

He blinks at me, like he doesn’t quite understand what I mean. “Kairi, you’ve got nowhere else to go,” he reminds me gently, not unkindly. “We _covered_ this, I’m not about to—”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant,” I cut him off, because _yes_ , we covered this, he’s not kicking me out, blah blah all that jazz. “Why…I haven’t even _tried_ looking for somewhere else to go, okay? You’ve helped me with so much, but you haven’t helped me find somewhere else to go, haven’t tried to say, ‘Hey, so you’ve been here two months, isn’t it about time you found your own place.’ My passport says I live _here_. What I wanna know is why I have a feeling that’s not changing, even though when I let you bring me here it wasn’t supposed to be permanent.”

Brendon doesn’t answer for a few moments, just sits there thinking it over. I don’t think it had occurred to him, that it was strange. I don’t think that he even realized that I should have been looking for somewhere else, that I should have been trying to move out. I’m steady enough now, to stand on my own. I don’t think he ever thought that that would happen.

“This is a big house,” he settles on finally, and he’s not wrong. “It’s a big house, and I…It was good, with Sarah.” I hold my breath—this is the first time this is actually coming up, and I’d be lying if I tried to say I wasn’t burning to know what happened, even just a little bit. “But then it was just me. All alone, and this house was too big for that, for me and two tiny ass dogs. I actually…I almost bought a Dane, but Zack talked me out of it.”

“I like to think I’m considerably less destructive than a Great Dane,” I say with half a smile, nudging his knee with mine. It’s a strange role reversal, me comforting him, but it’s certainly a nice change. It’s nice, feeling like I can do something to help.

“Yeah,” he agrees with a huff of dry laughter. “Yeah, you are.” He starts fiddling with his finger, the ghost of the ring he doesn’t wear anymore. “And I’m not saying that it had anything to do with bringing you here, because I honestly didn’t think of it at the time. It wasn’t until…When you locked yourself in your room, I realized that you made the house seem less big. Less empty. And after that, every time I said I wouldn’t kick you out…Kairi, I—I don’t…”

His breath becomes shaky, and okay. I may or may not be completely clueless on how to deal with this, so I just wrap my arms around his waist because hugs are nice and make everybody feel better.

“I’m not leaving,” I promise quietly, because even though I’m the one that brought it up, I’m the one that asked ‘ _why am I still here?_ ‘ I have absolutely no intention going anywhere. “I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere.”

* * *

 

“Just got off the phone with Patrick,” Brendon starts without preamble, sitting down on the couch heavily. “And I _think_ he might have just given me the protective dad speech?”

“He’s…not my dad?” I reply after a moment, because….what?

“We’re also not actually dating,” Brendon reminds me. “This is getting out of hand.”

It is. I have my own hashtag on Twitter (actually, I’ve got two, but one of them is considerably nicer than the other), and it seems like every other Tumblr post is _something_ about Brendon Urie’s new girlfriend. Like, for fuck’s sake, even if we _were_ dating, it certainly doesn’t warrant this kind of publicity. It’s not like he’s never going to start dating again, that’s just ridiculous.

I can’t help but feel like it’d be easier if I _was_ planning on moving out at some point, because even if we manage to convince the world that we aren’t together, I still _live_ here, and we can’t keep hiding me forever. Especially now that the world knows I exist.

“So ignoring it proved useless,” I note, trying to think things over again. That had really been my only idea, other than ‘ _hey let’s actually date_ ,’ which is a bad idea for a myriad of reasons.

“And denying it probably wouldn’t do any good,” he adds, because it wouldn’t. It really wouldn’t.

“I could be your long-lost cousin?” I suggest half-heartedly, because some distant relative would certainly answer a hell of a lot of the questions that have been cropping up lately. “It would explain how we met, why I’m staying with you, and it’s a pretty solid reason for why you brought me to England with you.”

“I don’t…I don’t want to outright _lie_ to them,” Brendon argues, and there’s something else, some other underlying reason that I can see but can’t _read_ , some other reason why he doesn’t like that plan.

“So we can’t deny it, because that would be useless, but we have to be honest?” I summarize. “Brendon, that doesn’t really make _sense_.” I regret the words almost as soon as they’re out, because all they get me is a lost look in his eyes, and something that looks akin to _hurt_ , and that doesn’t really make much sense either.

“No,” he agrees finally. “No, it doesn’t make sense. It…In my head, it does. Kind of. I think.” I’ve seen myself at a loss for words before, but I don’t think even I’ve been this helpless when it comes to explaining what’s going on in my head. “I guess…Don’t lie to them, don’t…They already think that we’re…”

“Are…” I blink, trying to work through his sentence fragments and piece together what he’s trying to suggest. “Are you saying we _pretend_ that they’re right?” I can already see a million and seven ways that can go wrong, and only a fraction of them are related to my newfound crush/infatuation/whatever-this-is.

“I…Yes?” he says finally, like he’s not entirely sure himself. There’s still something else, something lurking deep in his mind, something he’s not ready to share yet, and as much as I don’t want to rush him, keeping secrets while we work on determining this is a really bad idea.

~~I’m not a hypocrite for not sharing my crush/infatuation/whatever because I haven’t figured it out myself yet~~

“Brendon,” I say slowly. “There are two immediate problems I see with this plan. One, you don’t want to lie, so you’re suggesting we _lie_. Two, fake dating will most likely ultimately lead to a misunderstanding that gets one of us hurt and it gets very complicated and then we’re real-dating anyway.” This is not me suggesting that we just skip to that last step ~~although that would be nice~~.

He just looks at me with that same lost expression, looking helpless and small, and I never thought I would see that expression on _him_ , because I’ve been owning that expression since we met, and I’ve only just dropped it in the past week. It’d have been nice if it had just gotten lost, but apparently Brendon decided to pick it up.

* * *

 

I’m just about to get into bed when Brendon knocks on my door. It’s been a while since I’ve locked myself in here, and so it’s been a while since he’s knocked.

“Uh…come in?” I don’t really know what he could possibly want, we were talking just ten minutes ago until I decided two o’clock was a decent time to be going to bed.

“So I kind of have some things I need to say,” he begins slowly, shutting the door behind him. “And I would wait until tomorrow, but I’m probably going to lose my nerve before then, so I should probably do it now?”

I can’t really fault him for that logic—everything I’ve told him about myself, I did it very shortly after deciding that he deserved to know so that I couldn’t change my mind. It may be late, and I may be tired, but if he wants to tell me something he thinks is important, the least I can do is listen. “Okay,” I agree, sitting cross-legged on the bed. He sits down across from me, mirroring my position.

“Me and Sarah…We were growing distant, for a while.” Brendon’s not looking at me, but down at his lap, fidgeting with the fading tan line left by a now-absent wedding ring. “Divorce…We first brought it up in November. We thought about it, both of us. We thought about it a _lot_. We filed in January, shortly after New Year’s. It just…It wasn’t working, anymore. All these…All these quirks, we both had, they stopped being endearing, became…You fall in love. It’s foolish to think that you can’t fall right back out.” He takes a shaky breath, and I can’t tell if I should try to comfort him or let him finish. “Everyone who’s saying that I’m going too fast, that I shouldn’t be dating again…I announced it in early June. That’s when the whole thing finalized. But…I thought you should know, we’re just a couple months shy of a year, really.”

“I…” I don’t really understand why Brendon’s telling me this, especially not _now_. I mean, I’d figured that there was a lot of thought that went into this, that he and Sarah were probably already considering it even before I left home, so I hardly need the reassurance. And it’s late, on top of all that. And I get that he said he’d lose his nerve, but I still don’t understand what exactly is so important about this. “Okay,” I say finally, because that’s all my brain will supply. It’s two am and I’m hardly over the jet lag from my first trans-Atlantic flight (and first flight in general). And it is. It’s perfectly okay. I think.

“I just…” He stops, clearly deciding that wasn’t the right track. “Earlier, I wasn’t suggesting…” He just looks lost, like he can’t find the words to explain what he’s thinking. Or maybe he’s just too nervous to say them. “It’s late,” he declares finally, shaking his head. “It’s really late, and I keep…keeping you up. Late. That’s not fair, I should…Good night.” He stands up and smiles at me, but it seems a bit forced, off, _wrong_. He’s been all easy smiles and saying ‘it’ll be okay’s like he actually believes it every time he says it, but now he looks so awkward and uncomfortable—uncomfortable in his own house, and I want to be worried, and stop him before he leaves, but I’m too confused by this entire conversation that by the time I realize that I should say something, the door’s already closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I think I might be getting close to the end here?


	11. But They Haven't Seen the Best of Us {Er...Me} Yet

“I am about to start locking my door if he doesn’t stop letting you in.”

Bogart doesn’t reply (obviously, dogs don’t _talk_ ), but he stares at me. I can’t help but feel as though I’m having a staring contest. With a dog. Penny makes some kind of snuffling noise and readjusts herself on my knees. Between her there, and Bogart on my chest, I am very effectively trapped.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” I mumble mutinously, narrowing my eyes at him. “’Else I’d just shove you off the bed. The other one, too.” All my angry mumbling gets me is a face full of dog slobber. There is a reason that I am a cat person, and that reason is that they can sit on your chest without making breathing difficult—not that they ever do, they just sit on your face and make breathing _impossible,_ but that’s hardly the point. Also, they don’t attempt to lick you to death. There are much more effective ways for a cat to kill you. Less messy.

This morning is getting off to a very strange start.

“Alright puppies, up,” I command finally. Penny whines when I lift my knees, forcing her to get up and move to an empty spot on the bed. Bogart just yips at me as I nudge him off my chest. As soon as I’m free, I stand up and stretch. “Let’s go talk to Brendon about boundaries.”

He’s playing piano again, when I get downstairs. I don’t recognize it—never have, even when I was on the other side of the country watching him on Periscope—but it sounds so sad, like it’s about heartbreak, and there’s something about it that sounds vaguely like giving up. I try and locate his phone, try to figure out if he’s on Periscope or if he’s playing just to play, but then the dogs come down barking and Brendon stops playing and stands up to let them out.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he says, just barely loud enough for me to hear from my spot across the room. “I…I should have done that earlier.”

I cross the room to stand beside him, because that seems like the thing to do right now. “Brendon, I know what it’s like to have to build up the nerve to share something personal,” I point out, because really. I’m very good at it by now. “It’s fine. More than fine.” I wait a moment, then decide to just say it. “Thank you, for telling me.” I haven’t been letting myself think it lately, but I’ve always had a problem with sharing more of myself than the other person. I’ve told Brendon all ( _ ~~most~~_ ) of my secrets, but he hadn’t really told me any of his until last night. I ignored it, mostly, because I already knew more about him than he knew about me, simply because he was famous and had shared so much of his personal life with the public. But still, it was nice to see him extend the same trust to me that I’ve been extending to him.

I wait a moment to see if he’s going to say anything else on the subject, but he just watches the dogs run around outside. “They were in my room again,” I say lightly, a falsely accusing tone in my voice. “Which is strange, because I know you closed the door behind you last night.”

“I have no idea how that happened,” he replies, feigning at total sincerity but ruining it by grinning broadly. It’s nice to see that smile again. “I mean, that’s just _weird_.”

“It’s the strangest thing,” I agree, smiling back. “Seriously though, can you please stop letting them into my room?”

He nods. “Yeah, it’s…I’m sorry. Mostly. At first, I just thought that it might help you relax a bit.” He doesn’t say ‘cheer you up.’ I’m grateful, even though I’m long past the stage of questioning his intentions.

“And it did,” I concede. “Actually, I told Bogart everything before I told you. He’s just got one of those faces you can _trust_ , you know?”

Brendon laughs at that, short and loud. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it, but it’s the first time I’ve heard it in a few days, and _wow_ I’ve missed it. “Yeah, totally. But anyway, I’ll stop letting them into your room in the middle of the night.”

“Thank you.” I look down as the dogs come running back in and over to their empty food bowl.

“You hungry, puppies?”

I wonder, as I watch him fill up the food bowl, what it must have been like for Brendon. As often as he says that it was no trouble, that he never minded, that he was glad for the company (and I believe him on all those points, now, I do), it can’t have been _easy_ , and it certainly must have been strange. He found me, homeless and heat-dazed and closed off. All I ever did was eat his food and use his Netflix account and answer mundane questions and ignore his important ones.

Even when I started participating in conversations, acting like a normal human being and what not, I was still only pretending. Fake smiles, fake laughs. Everything was fake, everything was a front. I thought that if I could make him think I was okay, that I was getting better, that he’d stop looking at me like he was afraid he’d come home one day and I wouldn’t be there, and I could start looking into a place of my own without feeling guilty for leaving him.

I’ve missed Brendon’s smile, his laugh. The way he makes irreverent jokes about important things. It’s only been a couple days, but it hits me like a truck how much I never want him to stop again. For almost two months, though, I don’t think he even knew if I _could_ smile. And it’s weird, that he still told me that he liked having me around.

Because he’s letting himself be upset, which he deserves. He’s divorced and I pretty much interrupted his post-divorce self-loathing period. I came in, and he let me think that everything was okay with him so that I didn’t feel compelled to be okay myself. I’m okay now, and I think he’s still trying to be okay. But I don’t think he’s pretending, anymore.

“Been a while since I’ve seen you so lost in thought.” I look up at Brendon, suddenly standing in front of me and looking an interesting combination of amused and worried.

“You’re like Jack,” I say randomly, not really thinking. I don’t really know where that came from, because that didn’t even cross my mind before it left my mouth, but it’s true. Everything isn’t fine, it’s not okay. But happy nonetheless.

“What?” he questions with a laugh. “Who’s Jack and should I be insulted?”

“No,” I assure him. “If there’s ever a good thing to be, it’s Jack. The world needs more Jacks. Nobody would be sad.” I should probably tell him who Jack actually is, why the world would be better with more people like him—and believe me, the world would be a _wonderful_ place if there were more people like him—but I’m always at a loss for words when I’m explaining Jack to other people, and I always feel like I’m not doing a great man’s memory any justice at all. So instead I just grin up at Brendon, and it feels more real than even when I was telling him about my friends back home. Maybe that’s explanation enough.

“Well, then I am _honored_ that you think highly enough of me that you would compare me to such an important person,” Brendon declares, throwing in a superfluous bow for good measure, causing both of us to dissolve into a fit of giggles. “Zack said he’s coming over today,” he says after we’ve calmed down enough. “He’ll probably be here in about twenty minutes.”

“That’s a completely different thing that never happens ever,” I reply, still grinning. “Are we gonna throw you in the pool again?”

“No.” He says it too quickly, like he was anticipating the question.

“Did Zack ask you that, too?” I hedge, poking his arm playfully. “Because if that had happened on a normal day I’d have probably been cackling.”

“Do _you_ want to get thrown into the pool?” he demands. “Because I can do that.” He wraps his arms around my waist and lifts me off the ground, walking out into the back yard.

I let out a surprised squeak and wrap my arms around his neck tightly. If the fucker tries to throw me in, he’s coming in with me.

“No, no, no. I’ve already gotten thrown in once,” he protests. “You can’t drag me in this time.”

I glare up at him through the hair that’s fallen into my face and let myself go limp, turning into dead weight and falling to the ground. Brendon stumbles and collapses on top of me, holding out his arms at the last minute so he doesn’t crush me.

“Gotcha,” I say breathlessly. If asked, it’s totally because I wasn’t expecting him to fall like that (even though I maintained my vice-like grip around him) or to drop me in the first place, and it’s totally not because of how close he is. Not at all.

He’s staring at me with wide eyes, and he seems to be holding his breath. Some part of me wonders why he hasn’t moved yet, gotten to his feet and apologized and helped me up, because that’s what I’d have expected from this, but there’s another, selfish part of me that doesn’t care. Just hopes that he doesn’t move.

_Stop. What if this doesn’t work? What if you try and it doesn’t work and this friendship crashes and burns because you’ve got a stupid crush? You’ll have to leave, have to find your own apartment, have to get a_ job _, have to—_

“And on this day, traffic wasn’t— _aww_.”

Brendon scrambles up to his feet quickly, flushing red as Zack laughs maniacally at the awkward position he found us in. I push myself into a seated position, trying to pretend that I’m not blushing as bad as (possibly worse than) Brendon is.

“That was a very short twenty minutes,” I declare, trying for a joking tone. Zack just laughs.

“Yeah, traffic was a lot lighter than usual,” he explains. “But clearly, you two found a way to entertain yourselves.”

“Fuck off, man, we fell,” Brendon mumbles, looking down at the floor.

“You _fell_ ,” Zack repeats skeptically.

“He was going to throw me in the pool,” I add helpfully (I hope). “So I turned into dead weight and he dropped me, but I brought him down with me.”

“Right,” Zack says after a moment. Of course the truth would sound like a half-baked lie. Why can’t normal things ever happen to me? Why do I always end up with the crazy stories that sound made up?

“Fuck off,” Brendon says again.

There’s something in the look that Zack shoots him, something that might even qualify it as a _Look_ , and it makes Brendon go red again. I feel a bit lost, here. Out of my element. It always makes me uncomfortable when people do that communicating-with-their-eyebrows thing, because that’s not an art I ever perfected. Me and Nat couldn’t even do that, and we were always on the same page. We did that creepy twin-speak thing, like those girls from _The Shining_ , or the Hitachiin twins from Ouran. But wordless communication? Nah. Maybe you just have to know someone for more than a decade for that to work.

“We should go swimming,” Brendon declares suddenly, ending his silent conversation with Zack. “I haven’t really done much swimming this summer, it’s in the nineties. Cool off, you know?”

“Oh, I bet you need to cool off,” Zack jokes. Brendon throws one of the pillows from the couch at him.

“Ninety. Degrees,” he repeats. He turns to me. “What do you think, Kairi?”

I think I don’t like swimming. It takes too much effort to keep afloat and it wears me out in a way that isn’t fun when it’s not a novelty. I remember that when I was a kid, swimming was this big thing I never got to do. We didn’t have a pool, didn’t know anyone who did. I had the pool at summer camp, and with access to a pool one week out of a whole year, that was big. But once we moved into a neighborhood that had a pool? My friends had to drag me kicking and screaming out to it.

I think I don’t have a swimsuit. I hardly had a reason to bring mine with me when I left home, and Breezy didn’t buy me one when she kidnapped me for the unwanted shopping trip. I haven’t really got anything to _pretend_ is a bathing suit, either, considering that all I’ve got are skinny jeans and really fucking expensive designer clothes (and woah, I never thought I’d say that one _ever_ ).

I think Brendon looks really fucking hopeful, and I don’t know if that’s because he wants to swim or if it’s because of something else; something that has to do with the way Zack’s still shooting him those looks that mean something, with the way he seems determined to change the subject.

“I ah…I don’t have a swimsuit,” I admit finally, because Brendon and Zack are waiting for an answer, and I don’t want to tell them that I don’t like swimming or that I want to say yes anyway because Brendon looks like _he_ wants me to say yes, and I want him to smile in that pleased way that he has.

“That was a massive oversight on Breezy’s part,” Zack says after a moment, because probably everyone knows about that trip. “I’m surprised.”

“Oh, it was hard enough getting me to try on the day clothes,” I offer. “If we’d moved to the swimsuits I’d probably have just sat down on the floor and refused to move.” I would have, too. I’d be like that cat getting a walk—being limply dragged along, not bothering to contribute anything or move at all, even if it meant getting dragged over another…cat (person?).

“I’d pay good money to see that,” Brendon laughs. “It’d be fucking hilarious.”

“Of course it would,” I agree seriously. “I’m a fucking hilarious person.”

Zack looks at me curiously, and it occurs to me that this is his first experience with actually getting to see my sense of humor. Sure, that was that day at LAX, but that was a darker humor that doesn’t actually come out very often. This is Zack, seeing me as a person, a normal fucking person with a normal fucking smile, and not as some pet project Brendon’s picked up and determined to make feel better.

(I highly doubt he ever saw me that way, but up until recently that’s how I saw myself.)

“More because Breezy is not above carrying you to around the store like some kind of overgrown adult-child,” Brendon corrects me blithely.

“Or bribing you,” Zack adds. “Or threats. She really is an ‘any-means-necessary’ kind of girl when it comes to shopping.”

“Not as bad as Victoria, though,” Brendon points out. “And the thr…two of them together’s just a nightmare.”

Neither me nor Zack are cruel enough to react to Brendon’s near slip, although it does make me wonder what shopping with Breezy, Victoria, and Sarah would have been like.

(Hell. It most likely would have been Hell. Hell that smelled like perfume that costs more than my mom’s house.)

“Should we subject Kairi to the horrors of the band wives?” Zack suggests, suddenly gleeful.

I look up at him, not sure if my face spells death or if I just look terrified. I certainly feel like either option is an equally likely possibility. “We should do absolutely anything _but_ that,” I tell him with finality. I like Breezy, I do, and I’m sure Kenny’s wife is a wonderful person. But I really don’t like clothes shopping under any circumstances, much less with two celebrity wives who are (allegedly) nightmarish when they’re doing it. And if my experience with Breezy is anything to go by, I’m inclined to agree with Zack.

“Well, I mean,” Brendon starts, and I turn my head to glare up at him. “You can’t live in LA and not have a swimsuit.” This bitch. Traitorous little bastard. “And between Breezy and Kenny, Victoria’s got to have heard a lot about you, she’s gonna want to meet you.”

“Chemistry major,” I remind him darkly. “With a minor in Criminology. Try me.”

“Aw, come on Kairi,” Zack hedges, patting the top of my head. I very nearly bite his hand, but I don’t because I am clearly the kindest person in this discussion (my thinly veiled threat of murder notwithstanding). “It’ll be fun. Girl bonding time.”

Which, okay. I’d agree with. I’ve been spending practically every minute with Brendon, and Zack’s over here a lot. Not to mention the week in England, which was just me and five guys hanging around. Girl bonding time sounds, theoretically, _fantastic._ Except that, in this case, girl bonding time equals shopping. And I am not so naïve as to believe that I can get away from this shopping trip with one (singular) bathing suit. No, there will be, like, five. A couple more sundresses, maybe, because Breezy totally didn’t buy me enough of those in the first place. Of course, I’ll need one of those cover-thingies. And we can’t get everything at one store, because that’d be boring. We’d be going to like ten different ones.

“Can’t girl bonding time be like, a movie marathon or something?” It’s closer to a whine than I care to admit, but God damn it I don’t want to be subjected to another shopping trip.

“But _Kairi_ ,” Brendon whines exaggeratedly. “I wanna go swimming!”

“I would like to take this moment to point out that I’m not actually stopping you from doing that,” I remind him blandly. “Just that I’m not going to be able to join you.”

Brendon schools his face into a pout and amends, “I wanna go swimming with _you_.” He pulls out his phone and types something up, thumb hovering over what is presumably ‘send.’ “Please?” He loses the pout and looks pretty serious, like he genuinely does want me to get in the God damn pool.

“If I’m not back here by sundown, call the police,” I agree finally. I’m probably not going to be back by sundown, and Brendon is most certainly not going to call the cops when I’m not, but still.

Brendon’s grin that takes up his entire face most certainly does not make this worth it. Not even a little bit.

* * *

 

The little sofa thing I’m sitting on must have been made for the unfortunate males that get dragged here by wives/girlfriends/other females in their lives to sit on while the shopping goes on. It’s incredibly comfortable, and leaves me wondering if I could take a nap and wake up before Breezy and Victoria notice. Probably not, but it’d certainly be nice.

This is the third store we’ve been in, and, while I now own two lovely cover-ups, three new sundresses (and, okay, the dark blue one is totally something I’d have bought myself if it was about $200 cheaper and found in a K-Mart or something), and a new pair of flip-flops, which I did not need but they’re Rainbows and so the only fight I put up for those was to keep up appearances. Also, only fifty dollars. Normal high-quality shoe price.

“Kairi, stand up real quick?” Victoria requests suddenly. I was right, she’s a wonderful person. But I swear, if this is about my hips again…I get to my feet and cross my arms behind my back, which is apparently the correct pose for assessment of which bathing suit would suit me best? “Turn around?”

So this is about my ass, then. I swear, if it hadn’t been for marching band, this would be embarrassing as all hell and I’d have run out screaming twenty seconds in.

“Okay, try this one on.” Breezy hands me a hanger with a two-piece. I take it warily, like it’ll bite, and go into the dressing room.

The problem, which is making me nervous about stepping outside so Breezy and Victoria can see, is that it’s…Well, it’s a two-piece.

It’s not a bikini, which is nice (that was the first one they tried; I didn’t even go into the dressing room with it). It’s just…It’s not a tankini, either. I don’t like the idea of having my entire torso exposed. Don’t like that I still look too skinny. The barest outline of my ribs is still visible, but I don’t want them visible at all. I want to be healthy, want to _look_ healthy. The intense tan line I’ve got from the beginning of the summer is still visible, as well, but I don’t really care about that too much.

It shouldn’t be bothering me as much as it is. It’s not like there’s going to be a billion people who see me in this. It’s just…Brendon might _know_ , intellectually, that I’m skinnier than I should be. Even now, when I’ve been eating more and more, gaining weight back, slowly but surely. But I don’t want him to _see_ , don’t want him to go back to worrying about me.

I try for a minute to ignore that—the way that I can see my ribs, the way my collarbones are just a bit too prominent and my hips a little too sharp—and look at the suit itself. It’s nice, modest for a two-piece. It doesn’t make my boobs look bigger, doesn’t show off my cleavage. It doesn’t really _reveal_ much of anything. It’s certainly something I’d wear if only it weren’t for my _fucking skeleton_ being _visible_.

“Kairi!” Breezy calls through the door, and oh. Right. They wanna see. “Everything okay?” It’s a lot less pushy than I’d expected, and it occurs to me that of course they both _know_ that there’s likely gonna be a reason I’m nervous.

“Yeah, I just…” I _want_. It’s such a strange feeling, this wanting. I’ve kind of just been riding along with Brendon, saying yes to most of his suggestions because they aren’t _bad_ suggestions, and I hadn’t wanted any of the clothes that Breezy had bought me last time. But this is a _nice_ bathing suit, ridiculously high price aside. It’s nice and it may make it obvious how hungry I had gone before Brendon found me, but I’m getting better, and it’ll get to a point where that’s not true anymore, but it’ll _still_ be a nice bathing suit when that happens. I just…wish that that would happen sooner.

“Can…Can we see?” Victoria asks hesitantly, like she wants to make sure she doesn’t overstep some invisible line.

I look at myself in the full-length mirror again, the shape of my body and the way that they’ll know more than I strictly want them to. The way that their minds will probably jump to conclusions of ‘it was a choice’ before remembering that I was homeless (or maybe they don’t actually know that; I don’t know what Brendon told Dallon and Kenny, or what Dallon and Kenny told Breezy and Victoria).

I think of how I’m recovering, of how I’m letting people in and making friends here. Starting a life for myself and becoming a real fucking person. And how that means that I need to start trusting people not to judge, not to think of me any less because there’s nothing I can do now about all this except get better.

“Yeah.” I unlock the door and step carefully out, not letting myself care about whether or not they think I’m too skinny.

_I’m getting better_ , I tell myself firmly. _This is me, getting better_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zack ships them so hard, guys, I swear.  
> I'm currently working on Chapter 13, and i think either that one or 14 might be the end of this. It's just that 13's being a bitch and I really don't want this to end so I'm kind of procrastinating with it. It'll be finished by the time it's supposed to go up though, I swear.  
> Thanks for reading. I don't say it enough, but seriously. Thanks for reading this, and enjoying it, and all that. It means a lot.


	12. All My Friends Were Glorious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So so sorry it's Tuesday not Sunday Sunday and Monday were both spent driving because our car broke down and I have a Monday lab and I was panicking (sadly, there were no discos) but it's here now enjoy!!

“How was it?” Brendon asks, as soon as I walk through the front door. I don’t answer with anything more than a glare, and it makes Brendon laugh. “Come on, they can’t have been _that_ bad.”

That bad? I only (just barely) wanted one swimsuit. Maybe two. What I did _not_ want was ten. Different. Shopping bags.

Breezy and Victoria hadn’t said anything about the whole ‘hey check out my ribs’ thing, and okay. Okay, the whole thing got maybe just a little bit easier. But the shopping just kept _going_ , and after we bought the one suit, I was ready to just come home. I did not need four bathing suits, six sundresses, five cover-ups (why the fuck do I need more cover-ups than swimsuits seriously what the fuck), and two pairs of flip-flops. Especially when one of those is the Rainbows; I will likely never wear any other shoes ever again. They have a lifetime warranty and something tells me that I don’t have to worry about not utilizing that opportunity here. The other pair is some kind of dressy thing, which look nice but pinch my feet and I probably won’t wear ever. Especially since Rainbows.

“You were supposed to call the cops,” I remind him, instead of focusing on any of that. “The sun went down, and you were supposed to call the cops.” I drop the bags down and sit next to him on the couch.

Brendon laughs again. “How the fuck am I supposed to know where they would have _found_ you?” he points out. “I know how shopping with them goes, I’ve been subjected to the horrors myself.”

“Oh, but it can’t have been _that_ bad,” I tease, throwing his words back at him. “They bought me more of those cover-up things than bathing suits. It’s a private pool, I don’t really even need _one_ , let alone _five_.”

“Breezy and Victoria love shopping, and they love shopping with people who do not love shopping. They’re like cats.”

“Cats and small children,” I correct, because small children love nothing more than people who are uncomfortable around small children. “And, actually, cats don’t specifically _prefer_ people who hate them, they just prefer whoever is most inconvenienced at the time.” It’s true. We had a cat who only ever wanted to snuggle when my mom was knitting. Have you ever tried knitting with a cat in your face? It’s hard.

“Either way, you should be glad that…Linda wasn’t there with them. You wouldn’t have gotten back for another week.”

There’s a hesitation there, something that tells me he almost said Sarah. I don’t know too much about break-ups, and I know less about divorce, but I wonder if there will ever be a point where he can joke about her again, where he can remember her without his heart breaking. If I can do it with Dustin, then surely Brendon can do it with Sarah.

He nudges me and stands up. “Ever been night swimming?” he asks, broad grin in place. “Because we can totally do that, like, right now.”

I have no idea what the sound that comes out of my mouth is, only that it sounds inhuman and vaguely argumentative. Shopping is exhausting, and swimming is exhausting, and I am exhausted. We can swim in the God damn pool tomorrow; I want food and then I want to find some B-list independent movie on Netflix. I voice this part out loud and Brendon laughs _again_ (although, to be fair, he started laughing at my unidentifiable noise, so).

“Alright. Food and a shitty movie on Netflix. Sounds like a plan.”

* * *

 

Two hours later, we’re sprawled lazily across the sofa, my legs across his lap, his legs up on the coffee table, Penny and Bogart curled up on top of us. I’m calm and relaxed in a way that I haven’t been since I was eighteen, back when it was July and I didn’t have to worry about packing for college, when Nat wasn’t going to the military for two more months, when Sam didn’t have a job. When the three of us could just lounge about Nat’s father’s house for days at a time, when there was no world outside the Marvel one. When everything was simple, Dustin couldn’t touch me, and the world wasn’t entirely against me. And if it was, well. That’s what Nat was for.

“So…” Brendon seems nervous, speaking in that way he spoke in the beginning, when he wasn’t entirely sure I’d answer, but he was asking anyway. “So I didn’t press, earlier, but it’s kind of…Who’s Jack, Kairi?”

I take a moment, trying to map out the story in my head. Jack. Jack Smith. “For the record,” I start slowly, “it’s not because I don’t like talking about it.”

“Then why?” It’s not that _this is personal and she may not want to tell me_ tone, anymore. It’s innocent curiosity, and I can’t fault him for it.

“Because…Because Jack is—Jack _was_ a good man. And…I always feel like I’m getting it wrong, I guess? Like, like there aren’t any words, that explain it right. And so every time I try and tell somebody, it always feels…It kinda feels like I’m insulting him. And that’s not fair to him, because he deserves so much better, you know?”

Brendon looks at me and shakes his head. “Not really, no.”

“Okay, so basically.” I pause, because I there is no _basically_ about it. “Okay, scratch that. Not basically. Jack had MS.”

“Are all of your friends dying?” It would hurt, if it was a joke. But Brendon seems completely serious, and a little bit worried.

I raise a brow at him. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?” He laughs, but doesn’t answer, so I continue. “But yeah. In all seriousness, it felt like it, sometimes.” Rick had his problems, Jack had MS, Ruth had dementia, Aaron had cancer. It just always seemed as though the world wanted me to have as much experience with terminal illness as possible. “So, Jack was one of the parishioners at my church growing up, and he was just the _sweetest_ person I’ve ever met. He had his power chair and he’d come to church every Sunday, and he’d greet everybody with a smile—a _real_ smile. Not one hiding pain, not one saying _don’t worry about me everything is fine_ , but an actual, honest to God grin.” I can hear the distance in my own voice, the way that I’m getting lost in the memory, a small smile tugging at my lips as I remember Jack’s beaming face, that Southern gentleman saying ‘God bless, Sweetheart’ when I passed him in the hall.

“His, uh, his license plate, on his car, said ‘be happy,’ or something to that effect,” I recall, and it just seems like such an important memory to me, like there’s nothing that will ever make that invalid and irrelevant. “And then, one Sunday, he wasn’t there. He hadn’t died—we’d know, if he had. The funeral would have been at that church, it _was_ at that church. He just…I mean, he had MS.” My voice isn’t happy anymore, but it’s not sad, either. That’s the thing about Jack. Even when you’re thinking about this, about him getting worse, about him dying, you can’t be sad. “No amount of smiles and genuine happiness are going to make your nerves work perfectly again.

“And then, he was there again. We pulled into the parking lot, and I saw his van. Saw the rig for the power chair, the license plate, and I was just…I’ve had some pretty crap birthdays. But I’ve had some pretty great ones too. And the best one was the one where Jack Smith came back to church.”

“I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming up soon,” Brendon says, after a moment of me not saying anything.

“But. But that was the _last_ time I saw him.” I shift suddenly. This is veering dangerously into another story, one I don’t tell because even after all this time it just serves to piss me off, fuck institutionalized religion, fuck that priest, fuck that church, fuck—I had a point. “He, uh, he might have gone back to the church sometime in the next year. We stopped, about a month later. Beginning of my senior year of high school, Jack passed away.

“I used to spend a lot of time, wondering how I’d react when I lost all these different, important people. I don’t think any of us saw me taking Rick’s death as hard as I did, but I sure as hell know that we didn’t see me finding out the way I did, either. Jack was…Jack was weird, though. Because I thought it would be _horrible_. Someone that happy, that sweet, gone, it’d be like losing the sun. But Jack was alone, and he was in pain, and he may have always been happy— _genuinely_ happy—but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t hard.”

“You were just happy he wasn’t hurting anymore,” Brendon summarizes, and yeah. Yeah, that’s about right.

“’S not like I was worried about what was going to happen to his soul,” I point out, because if there’s one person I’ve always been sure about where they were going when they died, it was Jack. “And I think we cry when people die because they’ve left us, because we’re never going to see them again. I was never gonna see him again anyway. He wasn’t leaving that church. I wasn’t going back.”

“Why not?” It’s innocent, again. Just plain curiosity, but I can’t. Not tonight.

“So I’m really fucking content right now,” I tell Brendon bluntly. “And you seem pretty fucking content right now. And if I start talking about why we left the church that was ten minutes away for a church that was an hour away, then I’m just going to be really angry and wired. Long story short, the priest was an asshole who didn’t like that we didn’t agree with him.”

Brendon just stares at me. “Kairi, I was Mormon, remember?”

“Yeah, but I was Episcopalian. We’re meant to be _allowed_ to disagree with…Well, with everybody. The priest, the vestry, the bishop, the _presiding_ bishop—who, by the way, I have heard preach, and that was by far the single strangest, best, and most hilarious sermon I’ve ever heard.” I pause, because I have completely forgotten where I was going with this. “The point is, I never really had a religious crisis, because my religion is such an open one. But the priest didn’t get the memo. And I will tell you what happened, but not right now.”

“’M holding you to that.”

* * *

 

“Dude, what the _fuck_!”

“I’m not gonna post it, I swear.”

That’s a way to wake up. I blink my eyes open and try to figure out why my body’s so stiff.

“And if it leaks?” Brendon sounds absolutely livid. “Zack, we’ve already got enough problems from a fucking fan picture, _delete it_.”

I decide against opening my eyes; it doesn’t sound like Brendon knows that I’m awake yet, and something tells me that this is the only time I’ll get to actually hear what’s happening.

“It’s not _gonna_ leak, B. _Nobody_ gets into my phone but me. Nobody’s gonna see this picture until you confirm that you two are dating. I promise.”

What if what leaks? I cast my mind around, trying to decipher what exactly could have happened. We’re still on the couch—I crashed about halfway through some exceptionally shitty movie. Zack must have come in and seen us, right? And it sounds like he took a picture.

“ _Zack_.” Brendon’s voice sounds dangerously low, a tone I haven’t heard before but sends chills down my spine. “We aren’t dating.”

“Yeah. Okay. _Why_.” Zack sounds like he’s repeating something; something he’s been asking Brendon for a while. “Because you two have definitely crossed the friendship line you drew in the sand in the beginning.”

“I didn’t—”

“No, Brendon,” Zack interrupts. “Because I got it, at first. Your divorce had finalized a week before, and she was in absolutely no place to start making _friends,_ much less a boyfriend.” _A week?_ “And it kept making sense, because God knows Kairi depended on you, even if she didn’t realize it.” Excuse you, I did not _depend_ on anyone. “And that’s not a grounds for a relationship either. But God damn, Brendon, that’s not the _problem_ anymore. Did you fucking see the way she interacted with everyone in England? You said yourself that when Dallon and them were here she was wide fucking open.”

“And you saw the way she was the day _after_ ,” Brendon argues. That doesn’t really seem like a valid argument—the day after will probably always be like that, no matter how comfortable I get with the people I’m around that day. “And that’s not even the biggest problem anyway.”

“No, your problem is some bullshit hypothetical _what if_ thing that you are _never_ going to get over entirely, so you need to just _grow a fucking pair_ and fucking _tell_ her.”

My breath catches in my throat. I’ve been able to pretend that I wasn’t noticing all the little things that _maybe_ meant that he liked me too, that I was just seeing things that I wished were there. But there’s no misinterpreting this situation. There’s no ‘oh Zack must just be talking about someone else’ or ‘well he can’t mean it like _that_ ’ about this.

“I’m not losing another friend, Zack,” Brendon spits out venomously. “And if that means that I have to sit on this until it goes away, _fine_.”

“And what happens next time you start acting like a dick because you’re ‘sitting on this?’” Zack counters. “You’re not always going to have a fan picture to blame it on.”

Wait, he didn’t see the picture _before_ he started acting weird in England? Are the two things even related?

“It’s not gonna happen again.”

“You know what, B?” Zack says after a moment. He sounds tired of the argument. “I’m going to go, find something to do. I’m gonna come back later, and if you haven’t at least _talked_ to her, then I’ll tell her myself. This isn’t fair to either of you.”

There’s a silence after that; clearly, Zack wasn’t kidding about leaving. It’s heavy and weighted, even though Brendon’s _technically_ the only one awake—I don’t count because he doesn’t know I’m up.

“Motherfucker,” he whispers. I agree with him, even if I do wish that he would have told me himself instead of me having to overhear Zack yelling at him to man up. Another moment, then, “Kairi.” He pokes me in the side. I squirm, trying to make it seem like I’m only just waking up. I don’t know how I do, but Brendon doesn’t make any indication that he realizes (or even suspects) that I heard everything. “Kairi, I’m hungry,” he whines, poking my side again.

“No,” I groan, stretching out across the couch.

“No?” he repeats. “No I’m not hungry? How the fuck would you know that?”

“Because I’m psychic.” I pull myself into a seated position, rubbing at the crick in my neck. No more sleeping on the couch with another person. Or period. Not when there’s a bed.

He’s not acting any different, now that I’m up. There’s absolutely nothing to suggest that he had any sort of conversation with Zack. I’d almost think I’d dreamt it, but I was definitely awake. I can’t help but wonder if Brendon’s going to adhere to Zack’s deadline, or if he thinks he was joking. _I_ wonder if Zack was just joking. Was it just motivation? Is that what the picture was for? There are so many questions that I shouldn’t even _have_ , because I shouldn’t have heard the whole conversation. I shouldn’t have heard _any_ of the conversation. And I feel really bad, but it’s hardly my fault.

No matter what, I feel like things are going to be very different by the time I go to bed tonight.

* * *

 

“That’s…Is that _your_ phone?”

I look up at Brendon in confusion. “Wha?” There’s a phone ringing, somewhere in a different room. Brendon’s phone’s right where it belongs, in his hand, so I guess it must be mine ringing from the living room. “Apparently?” I stand up and move into the living room, picking up the phone.

_(252) 555-2746_

I’m hesitant to answer it. Last time an unknown 252 number called, it was that fucking song. That “ _come home it’s okay_ ” song, and I really don’t think I can take that again.

But…Well, Brendon’s here, this time. Watching me looking down at my phone and debating whether or not I should answer.

The phone stops ringing, effectively making my decision for me.

“Who was it?” Brendon asks gently as I put the phone back on the coffee table.

I shrug. “Dunno. Strange number.” I run through the list in my head. Not Graham, Adrian, or Kaycee; I have all their numbers. Mom or Dustin, maybe, borrowing someone else’s phone. None of my friends have even bothered to try calling—unless it was one of them playing the song?

“Probably a telemarketer, then,” Brendon offers. I don’t bother to correct him, to tell him that it’s from home.

Except the phone rings again, and it’s the same number. “A telemarketer doesn’t call back,” I note blankly. Ignoring the phone will make them stop eventually; they’ll think I got a new number, figure out I don’t want to talk to them, whatever.

“It’s from home, isn’t it?” Brendon guesses, as the phone quiets again.

“No,” I answer firmly. “No, _this_ is home.” Because it is. Home has always been a difficult concept for me. Home was away from NC, anywhere that wasn’t there. But then Tristan was born, and home was Tristan, even though Tristan was where I couldn’t stand to be. But Tristan’s gone, and NC is worse than it’s ever been, and it can’t be home if it rips my heart out whenever I so much as think about it.

The phone starts up again, and we both stare at it for the thirty seconds before it goes dark again.

“Okay,” Brendon says slowly, sitting down on the couch. “It’s not your younger brother.”

“Not Adrian or Kaycee,” I add, because whoever it is clearly isn’t giving up just because I’m not answering, and I’d like to know who it _is_.

“It could be one of your friends?” he suggests.

“Why _now_?” I point out. “It’s September. I left in May. Why…Why wait, why not call sooner?”

He shrugs. “No clue. Giving you time? Space? Graham might have told them you’re doing better? I don’t know how your friends think, Kairi, and it probably _isn’t_ one of them. But it _could_ be.” He takes a moment to think about it before he adds, “I’m glad you’re making new friends here. I’m _really_ glad I’m one of them.” (Like I really had a choice.) “But I don’t want you to abandon your old friends. I saw the smile on your face when you were telling me about them. And nobody here does that to you.”

“You think I should answer it?” I surmise hollowly, staring at the ‘ _six missed calls_ ’ notification.

“You can always hang up,” he reminds me. “I’m right here. Unless you don’t want me to be.”

“I want you to be,” I assure him, picking up the phone, because I do. He may not make me smile like my Carolina friends do, but he gives me strength like they don’t. “Hello?”

_Oh, thank_ fuck _, I thought I was gonna have to miss Will tonight._

The nervous tension drains from my body immediately, replaced by a guilt different from what I’ve been feeling.

_I mean, I get home and I think ‘Me, Sam, Hailey, Tim’—_

“Tim would bail and you know it,” I interrupt, because a) he totally would, and b) Nat is about to unleash her wrath, and if I distract her with Tim’s total lack of reliability she may remember that she can’t kill me or she’d have to ask one of her gods to bring me back.

_You’re right but that’s not the point,_ she concedes. _The point is that I come home, and you’re not_ here.

“In my defense—”

_And then the_ strangest _thing appeared on my dash this—_

“Stop,” I interject. “Right there. Stop. It’s not true. We’re not.” Nat doesn’t care about Brendon. Nat doesn’t care about Panic! at the Disco. Nat doesn’t care about any music that was released in a year that begins with a 2. If my and Brendon have made it onto her Tumblr dash, meticulously put together for minimal bandom posts, then it’s worse than we thought and we need a new plan.

_Oh so you weren’t in London last week?_ Nat guessed drily. _Because even the terrifying bear-child confirmed that one._

“Okay, no, _that_ part’s true,” I agree. “But I’m guessing there’s more to it than just ‘oh look, friend in London.’”

_Well, obviously,_ Nat agrees. _But I don’t actually care if you’re dating the guy or not._ She pauses a moment before amending, _Well, I mean, I do, because if you’ve got a new boyfriend and that new boyfriend is the lead singer of a band then that means that I’m gonna get a bitching Christmas present, but it’s too early to be thinking about Christmas anyway._

The blunt way she says it startles a laugh out of me. “Is that all I am to you now? A means to a bitching Christmas present?”

_Did you try jelly babies?_

“Don’t live up to expectations,” I answer readily. I had kind of been expecting that question, as well as…

_So LA. Next leave of absence, coming for you. Gonna tell me where exactly you live, or am I gonna have to stalk your not-boyfriend?_

Not that. I was expecting a ‘why’d you leave?’ or a ‘what did Dustin do this time?’ or maybe even a ‘hey, my dad’s still got his fire pit in the back yard, still big enough for a human sacrifice, can I use it on Dumbfuck?’ I was not expecting her to practically invite herself over.

_Actually, it’s not stalking. It’s a background check. I’m running a background check on your not-boyfriend._

“That’s not necessary,” I groan out, sinking back into the sofa.

_You, ah…You’re not coming back, are you?_

There it is. That’s why she called, what she wanted. Because surely Graham would have told her, and she’s known that I was always planning on leaving. “What’s left, Nat?” I ask finally. “What’s left out there? You’re not gonna stay there forever. Rick’s gone. God knows where Tristan’s ended up. What’s left out there except for bad memories and a family that doesn’t fucking care?”

_Family that does,_ Nat says softly. _The terrifying bear-child. Sam, Ursula, Tim. Your cat._

I snort. “Ah, yes. Can’t argue with you on that last one. Convinced me with Sin. How dare you use my baby against me like that?”

_Actually I was talking about Mr. Sir the female tabby?_ Nat corrects. _Seriously? I leave you alone and you name a female cat Mr. Sir?_

“Sam had a dream,” I say, as if that explains everything. “And get this: She told me about it in _one text._ It was one sentence and a list of names.”

_Oh my gods, I missed the apocalypse._ She’s quiet a moment before she adds, _I miss you, you know. But you were right, before. I’m not staying here, and I’m gonna miss you no matter where I go. So just…Stop trying so hard, to make other people happy. Stand up for yourself, speak up when you’re hurt. And pick up your phone on the first try next time, or I will show up at your front door and kick your ass._

“I miss you, too, Nat.” I don’t address everything else, because I don’t know how to, where to begin. But that’s the thing about Nat. I don’t need to say anything else, because she’s Nat and she already knows.

_Take care. I love you, Kairi._

“I love you, too. Give Will hell for me.”

The line goes dead before I remember that I never told her I changed my name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, most important: I know I said last week that 13 would be up on time. I can't guarantee that anymore. 13 will be the end, and I appear to be procrastinating the end. Add that to the fact that it's about finals time, it's just not getting written as fast as I'd like. I am sorry, and I will try really hard to get it up no later than Wednesday of next week.  
> Second: Jack Smith is, in fact, a real person. I didn't change his name because Jack is a nickname for John, and John Smith is the single most common name in the England and America. There were no lies in that part of the story. I wasn't going to include him originally, because it seemed irrelevant to the point, but apparently Jack wasn't okay with that.  
> Zack ships Brendon and Kairi SO FUCKING HARD, it's just hilarious to me.


	13. Seems So Fitting For Happy Ever After

“I’m guessing I was right,” Brendon says after a moment. It’s not mean, like in an _I told you so_ kind of way. More matter of fact, _I said it could be a friend, and look, it was._

“If you say ‘I told you so’ I’m punching you in the face,” I warn him, but there’s no heat. Mostly, I think I’m just glad to have heard Nat’s voice. I’m glad for the reminder that she’s still there, even if she can’t be right there all the time. I’ve never wanted to drift away from her, and I always tried not too whenever I could help it. It’s just that, lately, I haven’t exactly been able to help it. “But thank you,” I add. “For telling me I should try.” I should tell him. Tell him that Nat saw the pictures too, that this problem has extended so far into social media that even people who don’t care are catching wind of Brendon Urie’s new girlfriend, but I honestly don’t know how. I have no ideas on how to fix this, or what to do. So I decide to leave it, to not bring it up again, until we’ve got something resembling a solution.

“I have a lot of good ideas,” Brendon declares proudly. “All the best ideas.”

I don’t respond to that, just stare at him incredulously.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he huffs. “You can’t prove otherwise.”

“I know people who can,” I point out, getting to my feet. I almost miss home, now that Nat’s brought up Will. Or rather, I miss Will. I miss the Pirate. I miss the Isle, with all its ~~terrorist~~ tourist traps and its too-small movie theatre and the overcrowded beaches. But really, I just miss Will. I miss going to the Pirate with Nat and Sam and laughing at him, I miss the atmosphere and the easiness of those nights.

“Those people are liars,” Brendon argues, waving a hand dismissively. “Can’t trust a thing they say.” He pokes my side before standing up, too. “You’re good, right?”

“I’m great,” I reply, and for once, I’m not even lying. “So what do we wanna do with what’s left of our day?” It’s about four, and we haven’t actually done anything all that noteworthy today.

It’s four, and Zack hasn’t come back to push Brendon into saying anything. On the one hand, I really do think that he may have been joking, been giving Brendon some kind of motivation to…to _tell_ me that…Christ, I’ve had it confirmed, I still can’t even think it. On the other hand, though, they’ve known each other for long enough that surely Brendon would have _known_ that Zack was bluffing, so what would the point be in saying anything at all?

It’s four, and Brendon hasn’t said anything. The first impression that I got this morning was that he’s in denial; the second that he’s afraid to say anything. I can’t tell if he’s afraid of how _I’ll_ react, or if he’s just afraid of getting into another relationship.

_You fall in love. It’s foolish to think you can’t fall right back out._ It’s not an unfounded fear, if it’s the second one. I saw him with Sarah, the way the two were. ‘Relationship goals’ the whole internet said. ‘This is how I wanna be when I get married.’ ‘You two are so cute together.’ And then. And then they weren’t together anymore. They were one of the most perfect real-life couples I’ve ever seen, and then they weren’t a couple. And now Brendon can’t even say Sarah’s name anymore. Now he’s broken, and I’m broken, and his house is too big. I wouldn’t want to say anything, either. It’d be all too easy, pouring out your heart like that, for it to be smashed to pieces. I could turn him down. I could tell him I don’t feel the same (even though I do). I could tell him that I do, we could fall in love.

And then we could fall right back out.

Brendon likes me. Zack confirmed it. But what if he’s got the same sort of problem I have, if for a different reason. He was lonely, before he found me. His house was too big, too empty, and then I was there, and now it’s not. It was a house bought with two people in mind, and there are two people now. I was ( ~~still am~~ ) afraid that I only like Brendon because he saved me from myself. What if he only likes me because I saved him from his too-big, too-empty house?

But didn’t Zack bring that up, too? The hypothetical _what-if_ , the concern that would always be there. These things won’t go away, the fear will always be there. The fear that this isn’t real, that this won’t last. That’s never going to stop being an issue, never going to just disappear.

“I wanna see one of the bathing suits the girls bought you,” Brendon declares grandly. “After all, we really can’t let all your suffering be for nothing, right?”

It’s four, but I won’t worry about Brendon not wanting to say a God damn thing.

* * *

 

“That is a lot higher than it looks on a phone screen.” I’m staring up at the pool shed as Brendon climbs up onto its roof.

“You should jump in from up here,” Brendon replies. “Not like, a backflip or anything. Just jump.”

“Yeah, okay, see. I’ve got this thing about _heights_ ,” I explain, shaking my head fervently (not that he can see). “I am totally fine right here.” And I am. Truth be told, I’m totally fine not even getting in the pool at all. I really don’t like swimming.

Brendon turns to face me when he gets onto the roof. “View’s great up here, though,” he argues. “Absolutely beautiful.”

“And high.” Really, _really_ hate heights.

He makes a face before turning around and backing up, heels to the edge of the roof. “Ready?”

“I’m not the one jumping off a roof into a pool,” I remind him. Seriously, shouldn’t _I_ be the one asking _him_ if he’s ready?

“Good point,” Brendon concedes, before flipping off.

It’s actually pretty cool, in person. I have no idea what the proper backflip form is, but I know Brendon talks about fans trying to correct him on his a lot. Whether he’s doing it right or not, it was fucking spectacular.

He resurfaces, pushing his hair back out of his face. “WHOO!” He grins up at me, treading water. “Come on, Kairi!”

He sounds so like Sora, in that moment, that I’m suddenly reminded that I chose my name from a video game, and it’s so funny that I start laughing as I slip into the pool. Never mind the fans saying that he’s moving too fast, the ones that don’t think I’m anything more than a rebound. As soon as they find out that I’m calling myself Kairi, Brendon’s going to be called Sora and there’s going to be nothing that can be done to stop it. I’ll probably join in, to be honest.

“Something funny?”

“Honestly, I don’t even know.” Because it’s not that funny, really. There’s no punchline, there’re no remarkably hilarious cut scenes I’m being reminded of. I’m just… “Things are great, right now, I think.”

“You think things are great?” Brendon repeats. “And that’s funny?”

“It’s a relief,” I correct. I’ve had a lot of low moments. I’ve had a lot of moments where nothing seemed to go right, where nothing seemed fair. But never, _never_ (before May), had I ever felt _hopeless_. Even when Rick died, when I couldn’t breathe and couldn’t stand silence, I knew that it would get _better_. It was always going to get better. But when I called DSS, when I ran away, when I was on the roads and in the woods and everywhere in between, I had been so resigned to the fact that this was it. That I was going to starve, or that I was going to die from heat exhaustion. I had accepted that it was never going to get better.

And here I am. I’ve got a home, I’ve got new friends, Dustin can’t touch me here, and Graham and Kaycee and Adrian and Nat are still around, and I can reconnect with Sam and Tim and Ursula. It didn’t just get _better_ , it didn’t just improve. This is the best I’ve been since the beginning, since I was four and seeing what reality was for the first time.

“Yeah,” Brendon says, pulling me back from my thoughts. “I know what you mean.”

* * *

 

“Penny Lane!”

I snort as I watch Brendon trying to coax the poor little Boston terrier closer to the pool. Penny, for her part, looks totally terrified of getting any closer to the edge than she already is.

“Come on, baby girl,” Brendon calls, trying to stretch his arms the three or four feet so he can grab the dog. Penny skitters backwards when his fingertips brush against her paws, and he huffs. “What’s wrong, Pen?”

“She doesn’t seem to want to get wet,” I point out, grinning at Brendon’s scowl.

“Do you know how to get a pet to come towards the edge of a pool?” he asks.

“It was a public, neighborhood pool, and my pets were all cats,” I answer dryly. “Clearly, I have plenty of experience.”

“You have an odd sense of humor, Kairi.”

“Thanks, I’ve been told.” Really, my sense of humor extends across like, twenty different planes. It tends to confuse more people than not, and that really just makes me laugh harder most times. “You know, you could always just. Get _out_ of the pool,” I point out. “If you really want to pet her that bad.” I pull myself up out of the pool and sit on the edge, my feet dangling in the water.

“How dare you suggest such a thing?” he demands, hauling himself out anyway. “Are you hungry? I’m hungry.” He bends down and scoops Penny up, shushing her when she starts squirming.

I climb up to my feet and reach out to pet Penny. “Is he being mean to you?”

Brendon huffs indignantly, twisting his body so Penny’s out of my reach. “I was gonna suggest just ordering pizza, but now I don’t think I will.”

“Oh noooo,” I lament, picking up one of the towels and running it through my hair. “How ever will I survive? The horror, the _pain_ , the indignation of it—hi, Bogart.” I crouch down and pet the Jack Russell, smiling innocently up at Brendon. “He likes me more than Penny likes you.”

“Lies.” Even as he says it, Penny twists out of his arms and scampers into the house, claws clacking on the ground. I raise my eyebrow at him. “Penny loves me.”

I roll my eyes and wrap my towel around my body, heading into the house. “I can tell,” I call back to him.

Brendon comes up behind me, knocking into me gently. “You’re being so mean today,” he pouts. He doesn’t say anything else until we get into the kitchen, but then, “It’s amazing, actually.’

I furrow my brow in confusion. “Uh…Wanna expand on that?”

“When we met,” he starts, and _oh boy here’s that you’re doing much better_ _rant_ , “you were pretty much…catatonic? It was never about what you wanted. Once I managed to convince you to let me help, there was never really any fight. You just went with everything I suggested, until I tried to tell you that you should get some better clothes. You only ever answered any of my questions in a few words, and if they were too personal you shut me out entirely.” I can tell that he doesn’t mind it now any more than he did at the time. He’s only making observations right now. “You…You didn’t really have a personality, I think. Zack, he thought it was weird. That I really shouldn’t have been bringing a strange, emotionless woman into my home.”

“Theoretically, he wasn’t wrong,” I point out. “I could have been a serial killer.”

Brendon smiles, small but real. “See, it’s stuff like that, that I’m talking about,” he admits. “Because you aren’t _that_ anymore. You aren’t catatonic, you aren’t afraid to tell me if you don’t want something, or, for that matter, if you _do_ , you talk and you laugh and you make jokes. You’ve changed so much, since day one. And day two. And day twenty-six. You keep changing, you keep coming out of this shell. When we went to England, I didn’t expect you to warm up to Dan and Kenny right away, but there you were, joking about being a black widow, and I think you _actually_ scared Kenny, by the way.” Brendon seems to be losing his train of thought, seems to be rambling a bit, nervous, but it’s amusing as all hell and I have no intention of interrupting him.

“I didn’t know who Kairi was for almost two months.” He looks a bit mournful, admitting that. “It’s possible I still don’t. And you know what? That’s okay.” Well, he’s not wrong.

“The funny thing is,” I say after a moment. “The funny thing is, I didn’t either.”

“I think I might have a solution to the whole Twitter thing.” He takes a deep breath, like he’s steeling himself for whatever it is I could possibly say in response. “And I need you to tell me if you don’t like it, okay? Like, right away.” I can’t say anything, so I settle for nodding mutely. His intensity is kind of off-putting, but I feel like I might already know what he’s going to say. “I don’t want them to be wrong. Honestly, I don’t think they ever really were. So why don’t we just…tell them they’re right? And not be lying about it?”

“You know, I’m kind of an idiot,” I say after a moment. “You might have to spell it out for me.”

Brendon scowls at me before stepping close and taking another deep breath, locking eyes with me. “Will you be my girlfriend, Kairi?”

“Aren’t you supposed to take me on an official date or two first?” But I’m smiling up at him, and I can tell he knows I don’t mean anything by it.

“Yeah, well, you’re supposed to be my girlfriend before I invite you to live in my house. Or at least my friend-friend.” He shrugs. “We’re doing this whole thing backwards, why not?”

“Well, when you put it like _that_ ,” I laugh. “How can I possibly say no?”

Brendon’s blinding grin and the way it makes me grin back just at the sight of it tells me that it really was the right choice.

~~~

“And with that, I win the betting pool,” Zack announces proudly as he walks through the door the next morning.

“That is _not_ why you were getting angry with me yesterday,” Brendon hisses, not as venomously as I would have been if it was me getting told _my_ friends had started a betting pool.

Brendon told me about the conversation with Zack (I didn’t tell him I overheard it anyway; some secrets don’t need to be shared), and he texted him the news earlier this morning.

“No, I was getting on your ass because you were being an idiot,” Zack assures him brusquely. “The winning of the betting pool was just an added bonus.”

“How many people bet?” I ask curiously. It can’t be that interesting if it was just Zack, Dallon, Dan, and Kenny.

“Me, the rest of the band, Spencer Smith, and Pete got in on it when he found out you were coming to England with us.”

“You’re all fired from being my friends,” Brendon grumbles. I pat his shoulder sympathetically.

“You know, whenever my friends make a bet about something I will or won’t do, I demand half the winnings,” I suggest. “Since it’s ultimately my decision that wins the bet.”

“No way, my money,” Zack argues immediately. “So have you given any thought on how you’re going to introduce Kairi to the world?”

“We were gonna work on that today. What was Spence’s bet?”

“That you’d just be a pussy for the rest of your life and never say anything ever. It shouldn’t be too hard. I mean, they already know, don’t they?”

It’s not as surprising as I feel like it should be that Brendon and Zack can sit there carrying two separate conversation at the same time. Then again, me and Nat and Sam have a record of five conversations at once. Tim was just so pathetically lost, it was hilarious.

“I have zero experience with telling a large number of people my relationship status,” I point out. “So I’m completely useless in this brainstorm.”

Zack grins suddenly, and it looks like the kind of grin that signals some kind of malicious intent. “I have the most _adorable_ picture of—”

“You were supposed to _delete_ that,” Brendon interrupts angrily. Ah, yes, the picture.

“I never said I’d delete it,” Zack reminds him. “I said I was saving it, for when you two get your shit together and realize you’ve really been dating all along.” He pulls out his phone and pokes around on it a bit. “And guess what? That’s happened.” He holds out his phone, showing us the picture.

Me and Brendon are sleeping on the couch, my head on his chest and his arms wrapped around me tightly. Penny and Bogart are curled up with this, Penny in the crook of one of my knees and Bogart squashed between us and the back of the couch. Frankly, it looks like a real-life version of somebody’s fanart, something that exists outside of reality. Then again, my whole life recently seems like something existing outside of reality, so it shouldn’t surprise me that much.

“Wait, is your suggestion just to randomly post this to Instagram with absolutely no explanation whatsoever?” I ask. I actually like that plan; it definitely seems like a good plan.

“Well, I was going to suggest captioning it, but if you want to just post a random pic that works too.”

“I feel like there’s going to have to be a Periscope or something,” Brendon says thoughtfully. “If for no reason other than to explain that it’s not moving too fast, and you’re not a rebound, and address everything else everyone is going to be saying about you.”

“I’m glad you got your shit together,” Zack adds. “But don’t feel like you need to rush this part.”

“I’m going to get a lot more hate, aren’t I?” It’s not surprising, as much as I’d like for it to be. It happens. Either because people, for some ungodly reason, make real people their OTPs and I’m getting in the way of that, or because people are jealous, or people who think that celebrities _have_ to be with other celebrities. I’ve never hated on girlfriends and wives and boyfriends and husbands of any of my favorite celebrities; if they’re happy, I’m happy. But I’m a good person and not completely psychotic.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Brendon reiterates. “We know. Our friends will know soon enough. A few thousand strangers around the world don’t matter.”

I’ve done some pretty terrible things. I’ve hated myself for months. Questionably, I’ve hated myself for years. I’ve torn apart people that I should care about but can’t seem to bring myself to, and I’ve cried more for the death of a babysitter than my own father. I’ve alienated my friends from North Carolina and all but disowned my family. If there’s anyone who has any right to hate me, it’s all those people. It’s Brendon, who knows about most all of that. But if the only person that hates me is Dustin (and I don’t even know if he _does_ ), then I doubt that some salty teeny boppers are really going to matter.

“What’s the jealousy-induced hatred of a bunch of twelve-year-olds when I’m dating the lead singer of my favorite band?” I point out finally, prompting loud laughs from both Brendon and Zack. And, truth be told, it’s the perfect way to sum up everything.

* * *

 

“You sure about this?”

I roll my eyes and press a kiss to the corner of Brendon’s mouth. “Is there like a specific number of times you need me to say yes before you hit ‘go live?’”

Bren grins at me before he throws his arms around my waist and tugs me closer to him. “Just a couple more.”

“Yes, Brendon, I am ready for your fans to meet me,” I assure him. “Now if you don’t start the broadcast, then _I_ will.”

_BEEB_

_BRENDON_

_Omg I got in the chat_

_IS THAT YOUR GF_

_Hi beeb_

I try not to stare at the climbing number in the corner, focusing instead on the many colored hearts flying up the screen. Those are good, right?

“Hey, guys,” Brendon starts off easily. “How’s it goin’?”

_BUT IS THAT YOUR GF_

_IM GOOD BEEBO_

_BRENDON ILY_

_First time in the chat woohoo_

_I’m watching this in class_

_YOUR NEW GF IS PRETTY_

Brendon watches the chat for a moment before glancing over at me. “So, uh, everyone. This is Kairi.” I wave at the phone (which is weird in and of itself).

“Hi, I’m Kairi.”

_Kh omg_

_I FUCKING LOVE THAT GAME_

_GUYS DOES THAT MAKE BEEB SORA_

_Brendon ur sora now_

_YOU SHOULD BE SORA AND KAIRI FOR HALLOWEEN_

Brendon looks at the phone in confusion before asking, “Who the fuck is Sora?”

_Kairi’s boyfriend_

_Kairi’s best friend_

_THEY SHARED A STARFRUIT_

“Guys, Brendon can’t be Sora,” I interject. “I’m not Riku.” Seriously, that kid’s priorities were all whack. _Kairi, I’m so glad you’re okay!_ But then: _RIKU OH MY GOD YOU’RE OKAY YOU ARE OKAY RIGHT IT’S OKAY THAT YOU TRIED TO KILL ME LIKE SIX TIMES I FORGIVE YOU OH THANK GOD YOU’RE OKAY!!1!!_

_Omfg_

_TRUUU_

_Good point_

Brendon leans over and whispers into my ear, “What the fuck is going on?” and prompting me to burst out laughing.

“In hindsight, I probably should have warned you,” I admit. “Kairi is a character in a video game called Kingdom Hearts. It’s a fun game. Fuck Riku in the first one.”

_Also true_

_Fckng savage_

_Hes not evil just misunderstood_

_Wtf happened to the chat b just wanted to introduce us to his new gf_

Brendon reads that last comment out loud with a grin. “Exactly. I didn’t get your name, but you’re right.”

_We approve of your new gf as long as you don’t get turned into a shadow_

We stay on Periscope for about thirty minutes, slowly turning the conversation away from Kingdom Hearts and back to the point. People ask how we met, people ask if I really was the girl in the picture from England. Of course, people do say that Brendon’s moving too fast, accuse him of rebounding. We address them calmly, explain to them that there was plenty of time between us meeting and getting together and that it’s been a year since Brendon and Sarah first mentioned the idea of divorce, longer since they started drifting apart.

I do get a lot of people saying that I’m a whore, or that I’m gold digging, but we don’t even acknowledge those comments. We ignore them, everyone else in the chat ignores them, and they stop after a while.

We didn’t mean to take two months to go on Periscope and introduce me to the fans; we really didn’t. But the album finished, and it’s been a whirlwind of marketing and publicity, and it feels like he’s had a different show in a different state every other day. Today’s the first day in a while that we’ve had more than one day alone together, and Periscope really does take back burner to all the normal couple things (although we’ve been failing at all the normal couple things right out the gate so I have no idea why we really bothered trying).

“That went well,” Brendon mutters, setting the phone down and wrapping his other arm around my waist and pulling me onto his lap. “Now I know where you chose your name.”

My newly legal name. I still can’t get over that, the fact that I actually physically and legally _changed my name_.

“She showed up on Destiny Island, one day,” I explain softly. “Just a stranger, with no idea who she was or why she was there.”

“And Sora?”

“Helped her find herself.” I turn my head up and kiss him softly. “So maybe I ship Sora with Riku, but I can make an exception for the real world.”

Brendon hums and kisses me again. “I love you, Kairi.”

“I love you, too, Brendon.”

I’ve done a lot in the past five-ish months. I called DSS on my nephew. I ran away from home and all the way to Raleigh, where I caught a bus to Chicago and met the lead singer for a band called Fall Out Boy. I ran away from them and walked almost all the way to Los Angeles, taking a small break to get a bus across the Rockies. I met the lead singer for a different band, called Panic! at the Disco, and let him take me to his home and feed me, give me a bed to sleep, give me a place to shower. I got kidnapped by the wife of Panic!’s bassist and dragged out to buy too many too-expensive clothes.

I learned an important lesson about opening up. About letting people know what’s going on, and about trusting people with secrets and skeletons. I learned that the whole world isn’t out to get me, and I learned that friends are an important thing, whether they’re new friends or they’ve been around a while.

I may not be talking to Dustin yet, but my mom’s finally started calling me Kairi, finally apologized for letting Dustin control her and terrify us the way he always did. And maybe we still don’t know where Tristan is now, and we probably never will. I can’t say that it doesn’t matter, because it does and always will.

But I can say that it’s okay. Because I understand, now, after all these years, that okay does not mean perfect, and it doesn’t even necessarily mean good. Okay means that you aren’t alone, okay means that there’s someone there to hold you when it gets hard.

I have Brendon, and Brendon means it’s okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't read through this one before posting it, and it seems a bit choppy because this was just tying up loose ends. This is probably the...third? story I've ever finished, and I like this ending more than the others.
> 
> Literally cheered for a solid five minutes when I got them together, it really didn't want to come easy for some reason.
> 
> Thank you guys, so fucking much, for reading this. For your comments, and your kudos, and your patience back when you had to wait two weeks because fuck my computer. For reading my vague as fuck summary and thinking "yup, this seems like something I wanna read." It really means a lot, that you all liked it, and it gave me the drive I needed to keep this going and actually finish something. Normally I'd have given up somewhere around chapter six, and it's really because of you guys that I didn't. I really can't thank you enough.

**Author's Note:**

> So...I'm new. I had this nightmare-that-turned-kinda-good a while back, so I decided to write it. It's completely unbeta'd, so if you notice any grammar issues, lemme know.
> 
> Follow me on tumblr at pyromanicschizophrenic
> 
> Kudos and comments appreciated!!


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